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  "I know what it is." No explanation required. I carried the thing around for almost nine years, till I started getting so drunk every day I forgot to put it in my pocket. It was a good luck charm, a tiny four-leaf clover, a real one, encased in translucent acrylic.

  "Guess I used up all the luck it had for me," David said, while he was lying in a hospital bed in the recovery room. "Why don't you take it? Maybe it'll still work for you." And it did, a least for a little while. I got David.

  David's father was not pleased. Not about David giving away the charm he'd given his son when he was twelve or, for that matter, anything else. Or more specifically, anything relating to his son and me being together. I could see where David's father might be overprotective-he'd already lost one son, Rachel's father. So when David was wounded during a 405 pursuit-armed robber, gunshot to the upper thorax-his father went on twenty-four-hour orange alert.

  "I guess I haven't been shy about my thoughts regarding this relationship," his father had said.

  "That's all right," I replied, lying through my teeth. "I think it's best to be up front with each other."

  "Well, I've done some checking up on you, miss. And most of what I've learned I haven't liked. You're not exactly…"

  "Donna Reed?"

  He took it in stride. "The image of what a man sought in a woman when I was courting." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "David is very vulnerable right now. He needs someone who can look after him. He needs a woman who really cares about him."

  "I would not lie about this," I said, looking his father straight in the eye. "I love your son. More than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life."

  He met my gaze for a long, long time, then finally nodded. "Take care of my boy, Susan."

  Light filled my eyes, and I felt them watering of their own accord. "I'm so sorry," I said, not even realizing I was speaking aloud. "I'm sorry I let you down."

  "What?" Rachel said. "What are you talking about? You've never let me down in your entire life."

  I blinked, then dragged myself back to the present. "Sorry. Daydreaming. That good luck charm-"

  "See, that's why I kept it for so long. I was afraid if I gave it to you, it would just bring back memories…that maybe it was better you forgot."

  "No, you did the right thing. This is a treasure. This…will always be a treasure to me." I clutched it tightly in my hand. "Thanks, Rach. You're a hell of a girl."

  "Susan, if you start swearing, Mr. Johnson will revoke your visitation rights."

  "Good thing you know how to keep a secret." I gave her a squeeze on the shoulder. "Get in the car, you squirt. I've got work to do."

  Lady Danielle had to move quickly, before her captors returned to the ship and discovered that she had escaped. This was the pirates' first chance to go ashore for months, and they jumped at it, the whole scurvy lot of them. They were certain to take advantage of the pleasures to be had: the grog, the gaming, and the lusty wenches all too ready to serve. But she couldn't count on them all staying gone, not for long. Captain Longsword knew he was carrying valuable and potentially dangerous cargo. He wouldn't be absent any longer than necessary. Once he'd paid for the necessary supplies, he'd likely return in the first transport that rowed out from the shore. Which made it all the more important that she hurry. It was not easy, maneuvering through the hatches of a ship, up and down ladders, through the narrow passageways, all while wearing a full petticoat. But she had to discover where they had imprisoned Mason. Before it was too late.

  "I don't have time for modesty," she muttered, as she loosened the fastener and slithered out of the petticoat, leaving herself in a tight laced bodice and white frilly bloomers. Now she was able to move quickly. She brushed her golden curls behind her shoulders and threw open the door to the captain's private quarters Mason was hanging from two chains suspended from the ceiling, his head bowed. Was he asleep, unconscious? Or worse? He was naked from the waist up, his muscled hairy chest marred by the scars from his recent flogging. (Once again, Mason's pride had interfered with his judgment.) She should have realized he would be in here. Longsword wouldn't risk having him anywhere else. Plus, this gave the vile captain the opportunity to torment him all day long if he liked. To eat like a pig right under Mason's nose, when he had been given nothing but stale biscuit and water for days. To luxuriate in his plushly appointed quarters-the end result of his ill-gotten gains-while Mason hung like a slab of meat in constant agony.

  The sound of the door closing brought his head upright. "Lady Danielle?"

  "It is I."

  His face reddened. At first, she thought it must be from the pain, but then she realized-"I hope you will forgive my indecent appearance. Female attire is not well-suited for pirate vessels."

  "Indeed not," he said, nobly averting his eyes. "But-you should not be here, my lady. If the pirates return-"

  "I could not leave you at their mercy."

  "My lady, I am but a humble stable boy. Unworthy of your notice, much less-"

  "You saved my life. You defended my honor when Longsword threatened to make me his by force. I will not leave you in your time of need."

  Mason's chin rose. "He keeps the key to the chains in that desk drawer."

  Lady Danielle found them. The lock was old and rusted and turning it required great effort. To get at the lock, she was required to stand on a chair and lean against Mason, her bodice pressed forward. They were both all too aware of the physical contact. Her breathing accelerated. His chest heaved.

  At long last she managed to spring the lock. Mason fell to the deck, but quickly righted himself. He stretched and massaged his arms, flexing his magnificent muscles, slowly restoring his circulation. She stepped down from the chair. They were still very close to each other.

  "My lady…I do not know how I could ever repay this kindness."

  "By staying alive. By…by…"

  An instant later, their lips were pressed tightly together. He wrapped his strong arms around her in a tight embrace.

  "My lady," he repeated, as he lavished kisses up and down the side of her neck, "this is wrong. If your family learned-"

  "Family be damned," she said, seizing the waist of his trousers and all but tearing them loose. "Perhaps I have lost all reason, but my heart is in-flamed and I cannot resist you. From the moment you were brought on this boat, I've done nothing but think about you, dream of being with you. And I am a woman accustomed to getting what she wants." Once his pants were gone, she removed her own remaining clothing with intense speed. They stood naked before each other, their hands in erotic exploration, their kisses reaching a violent intensity.

  "But the pirates," Mason said, even as he maneuvered her toward the captain's bed. "They could return-"

  "Not before the sea change. This is our time, Mason. Time for you to give me what I have craved all these long, lonely days at sea. My heart aches with desire for your throbbing manhood-hey, wait a minute!"

  A face appeared from behind the camera. "Problem, Danny?"

  "Yeah. Where's his throbbing manhood?"

  Everyone on the set broke up. Everyone, that is, except the actor playing Mason.

  "What do you think we pay you studs for, anyway?" Danny said, removing her wig. It itched and after too much exposure to the klieg lights, it started to smell. "The Vegas standard for studdom is definitely declining."

  "Cut me some slack. It was a long scene. And this is the third take."

  "Yeah, yeah. Excuses, excuses. Where's the fluffer?"

  "Right here." A young woman in a pink halter top stepped forward. In the adult film business, it was the fluffer's job to keep the male studs looking studly. Take after take.

  The man behind the camera pointed at his watch. "It's almost quitting time, Danny."

  "Not till we get this scene in the can. Then the boys can set up for the captain's bed/bondage scene and we can start fresh on that first thing in the morning."

  "As you wish, my lady," he said, grinning. "And you still
want Mason to be the one who gets tied up? Usually it's the other way around."

  She smiled as Gina, her personal aide, handed her a robe and a cup of Yorkshire Gold, her favorite hot tea. "Not in my movies."

  10

  Ifelt the heat the instant i walked into downtown police headquarters-the heat emanating from a hundred pairs of eyes bearing down on me. Perhaps I was exaggerating-maybe it was only seventy-five pairs-but I didn't think so. Everyone in the shop had heard about what happened the other night at Burger Bliss; for that matter, an article reporting the incident, though happily unaware of the goriest elements, ran on the front page of the Courier. No doubt there had been speculation, perhaps even a betting pool, regarding how long it would be before I walked through the front doors.

  Here I was. And they all expected me to solve the mystery, to make some sense out of something that was so patently senseless. They were counting on me to stop the madness before it happened again.

  I felt an aching in the pit of my stomach, a desperate desire to flee, to run back to the parking garage and speed home. There was a twenty-four-hour liquor store on the other side of the block; I could be there in minutes. I wouldn't overdo it-just a little swallow to settle my jangled nerves so I could perform, function at peak efficiency…

  Which was all crap, damn it. If I gave in once, it would all be over. I wouldn't stop with one drink. I wouldn't function at peak efficiency; I wouldn't function at all.

  I clenched my fists and plowed a trail to my desk.

  Yes, my desk. My own little cheap plywood desk, but it wasn't positioned in front of the men's room like the last one. O'Bannon had tossed enough work my way during the past months to justify giving me a tiny corner of my own on the upper level. He'd kept me fairly busy, but I knew in my heart that he was going easy on me, tossing me softballs so I wouldn't be too stressed, too pressured. So I'd have time to recover, to see my doctor, to get my life together again. He'd been good to me. I bet he thought about it a good long while before he brought me into this mess. But in the end, he'd had no choice. I was his behaviorist, and this case demanded one. He either called me or replaced me.

  So here I was, pretending I was up to the challenge, pretending that everything was normal, pretending that I couldn't see the ripples on the surface as I carried my Styrofoam cup of jamoke back to my desk. I was a wreck. And they expected me to catch some goddamn maniac. Isn't life great?

  Before I even had a chance to finish my cuppa, I saw Granger making his way to my desk, and for once, he wasn't smirking. As if that wasn't strange enough, instead of the usual caustic epithet, he muttered a very pleasant "Good morning, Susan."

  I hardly knew how to respond. "And to you, Barry," I replied, waiting for him to spring a trap.

  "Here's the preliminary info we've gathered on the victim. I've got detectives searching his apartment as we speak. You were…umm…" He coughed into his hand. "You were right."

  Ah. Now I understood. I glanced at the file. "Mohamadas Amir. Indian immigrant. Age twenty-eight." I looked up at Granger. "Night-shift manager at the Burger Bliss."

  "Landlord says he didn't come home night before last, hasn't been seen since. And," he added, dropping another file on my desk, "we found the body."

  I lapped up the file like a toddler with chocolate ice cream. "Really! Where?"

  "An alley on the north side of town. About twenty miles from the Burger Bliss."

  "And we're sure it's the right body?"

  "What, you thought it might be some other faceless corpse?"

  What I was thinking, of course, was that it was possible this might not be the first time our killer had struck. Only the first to be discovered.

  Granger continued. "The coroner's office is being typically tight-lipped until all tests are completed, but I can't imagine that it would be anyone else."

  I just hoped he was right.

  "Look, can we clear the air?" Granger obviously had something he wanted to say, so I let him say it. "We both know I didn't want you on this case. But whatever you may think, it really isn't personal. Since I became head of homicide, I've poured hours and hours into building a tight, strong team. I don't think we need outside help. In fact, I think it's a slap in the face. But I was overruled by O'Bannon, and here you are. I can live with that."

  "Appreciate it," I mumbled.

  "And I appreciate the assist you gave us." He drew in his breath. "But what I said yesterday still goes. If I feel that you're being unproductive-" He paused ominously. "-or if I get one whiff of a hint that you've returned to your old bad habits, I will be in O'Bannon's office demanding that you be removed so that I can apply the money he's paying you in a more useful fashion. Understood?"

  "Loud and clear," I said. "Mostly loud."

  He blew air through his teeth, sighed, then walked away. My eyes fixed on the back of his head, thinking how neat it would be if people really did have heat vision. While I was trying to calm my jagged nerves, Granger dropped in and practically pushed me off a cliff.

  And into a bottle. Jerk.

  I read the ID file first. It was very preliminary, mostly stuff they'd gotten off the Internet and city records, but there didn't appear to be any distinguishing characteristics about the victim, much less anything that might inspire someone to have him boiled in oil. He didn't finish high school; never went to college. He lived in a crummy apartment in a crummy neighborhood and made about ten bucks an hour watching other people sling burgers. He'd been married and divorced once, had four children. There was no evidence of large withdrawals or a connection to drugs or gangs or organized crime or anything else that might cause him to die such a gruesome death. He was, at least on paper, a perfectly average lower-class Gen-Y slacker.

  Why did the killer single him out? Why, given the host of options at his disposal, did he choose to kill him in such a hideous way? Why was it necessary to push his face into the fire? And what was the point of the equation on the grill? I suppose it was possible someone else did that, an employee with a math fetish or something. But that didn't ring true to me. It was the killer. It was all part of…something. But what?

  I was desperate to call Darcy. He was the math savant, after all. He stood a far greater chance of deciphering that message than anyone on Granger's detective squad. But I had promised O'Bannon I'd keep him out of it, and I certainly didn't want to give anyone an easy excuse to grant Granger's fondest wish and can my ass. I'd have to think of something else.

  The second file was even stranger than the first. The body had been discovered early this morning by a homeless man in an alley between two department stores on the north side, more than twenty miles from the restaurant where the murder took place.

  What the hell sense did that make? Why not just leave the corpse where it was instead of dragging it twenty miles across town? There didn't appear to be anything special about this alley. It wasn't even a good hiding place; the body was bound to be found. And it was just off a busy street that had nightclubs and bars and other places with heavy nighttime traffic. Somebody took a hell of a risk depositing the body there.

  Why? Why go to all that trouble and incur so much danger just to leave the body…nowhere special?

  I hadn't a clue. I stared at the photo of the victim, then closed my eyes and let my mind wander, but nothing came. It just didn't make any sense.

  But it must've made sense to the killer. He must've had a reason. And my instincts told me that if I could figure out that reason-then I could figure out the killer. And if I could figure out what made this guy tick, maybe I could catch him.

  But so far, I was at square one. Maybe not even there.

  Like several other young women in Vegas, Danielle Dunn made porn films; in fact, she'd been doing it for twelve years. But she wasn't the usual statistic, the pathetic drug-addicted nitwit who gave the camera one humiliating pose after another just to get a little chump change from the man. She was the man.

  It hadn't always been that way, she reflected, as
she sat in her private office in the studio she owned, sipping tea from bone china. She'd left home when she was sixteen, pregnant, a social pariah. Her own parents would have nothing to do with her. Those had been tough times, and some of the things she did back then still haunted her. But she had survived. She was too young for most of the legitimate work on the Strip-cocktail waitressing, dealing cards. She was young and skinny and more than once some pervert tourist had suggested ways she could make a little money. And she'd thought about it. But fortunately, she was able to resist, although some might think her next job-stripping at a downtown club-wasn't much better. That led to working as a nude model, which in a short time led to an encounter with one of the top direct-to-video porn producers late one night at the Sahara. In less than two years, she'd gone from high school cheerleader to porn queen. But those porn movies saved her from prostitution. And a host of other evils even worse.

  She knew that, in some people's minds, there wasn't much difference. Taking money for sex was taking money for sex. But to Danielle, there was a Grand Canyon of a difference. She might be having sex (although most of the time penetration was simulated), but it was no squalid twenty-dollar back alley transaction. She was on a set, playing a part, following a script. She was acting. And when she did get paid, the money didn't come from the man with whom she'd had sex. It came from the producer, who was compensating her in a legal and legitimate way because she had performed a valuable service.

  She was good at it. Not just at being naked-the whole job. She learned lines quickly and rarely stumbled, and that meant a lot to a producer working on a limited budget. What's more-she could actually act. The flat delivery that characterized so many porn actresses (either because they were high or barely able to read, or both) was light-years from Danielle's performances. She not only could deliver a line, she could assume a character. As a result, the producers started investing more time in the plot, costumes, music, spending an extra penny here and there to make it better. If they had a real actress, why not make a real movie? With a sex scene every eight minutes, of course.