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the mood. I shook my head, smiling, and bore the tray back to the kitchen. The omelet smelled wonderful, so I ate it, and tossed off the wine as well. Then I covered Zorro with a blanket and went to bed.

I was a long time drifting off. Questions kept marching through my mind, relentless ranks of soldiers on parade. Was Skull ever going to show up, or would I have to look over my shoulder for days on end? Or more than days? What if my call stampeded him into attacking one of the other women? Would Tommy Barry pull through, and would he be safe if he did? What if the guard at the hospital slept at his post… slept…

I slept at last, fitfully, plagued by dreams. In the midst of one nonsensical nightmare—something about a thunderstorm, and being clawed by a cat—somebody slid a hand up my leg, from ankle to knee. I gave a little screech and sat up, clutching the comforter around my bare shoulders.

“Leave me alone!”

“I’ve been trying to, Sleeping Beauty.”

It was Tuesday morning, and Aaron was sitting on the edge of my bed with a Cheshire-cat grin. His jaw showed a heavy stubble and his clothes were a crumpled mess, but aside from that, he was repellently brisk and bright-eyed. “I gave it my best shot, but I can’t stand it any longer.”

“Stand what?”

“Starvation. There’s nothing in your kitchen but Zack’s pineapple and a bottle of cheap white wine, and they both smell rotten. I’m perishing out here! Get your clothes on and we’ll go out for breakfast.”

I sank deeper under the covers, whining. “It’s too early for breakfast. I’m not hungry.”

But the issue wasn’t hunger, it was hangover. Unconsciousness, I was sure, would be infinitely preferable to this all-too-familiar combination of flannel mouth, sledgehammer head, and remorse. Did I really drink a whole bottle of Pinot Noir?

“I’m going back to sleep. Go away.”

“No deal, Stretch. Come on, up and at ’em. Or would you rather I joined you under there?” The hand slid under the comforter, higher this time.

“Cut it out, Aaron! Can’t you wait a while?”

“You’re awfully crabby for a damsel in distress, you know that? Here I came all this way for a false alarm, and you—”

“What false alarm? Skull is after us! He killed Angela.”

“That’s not what Graham seems to think.” Aaron began to pat his pockets, hunting for cigarettes.

“Well, Graham is wrong, and so are you. And don’t you dare smoke in here. Go outside.”

“Not unless you get up.” His dark eyes held a spark of irritation now. “I mean it. If you want a bodyguard, you’ve got to feed him.”

“I don’t want a bodyguard!”

“Well, what do you want?” He stood up, rifling his pockets in earnest.

“I want you out of my bedroom. And then—”

The phone rang, which was just as well since I didn’t really know how to finish my sentence. And then what? Hide out from Lester Foy forever? Aaron left the room and I grabbed the receiver.

“Ms. Kincaid? Graham. There was another sexual assault last night, right near the Sims woman’s building.”

“Not a murder?”

“Not this time. We’ve got a chance to make an arrest today, so I can’t spare the time for your…”

“My hunch?”

“Exactly. Just take sensible precautions, and stay in touch with my office, all right?”

“Of course. Lieutenant, about last night, I really appreciate—”

“Got to go.” And he hung up.

When I emerged from the bedroom, dressed but still cranky, Aaron was out on the deck in his shirtsleeves, grinding one cigarette underfoot while he lit another. Last night’s rain had emptied the lower clouds, and the sky showed a high, faded blue streaked with fast-moving mares’ tails. His khaki windbreaker was lying on the couch, so I carried it out to him, holding it distastefully with two fingers.

“This smells of smoke.”

“Excuse me for living. Who was that on the phone?”

“None of your business.”

“Come on, Stretch, I can read you like a book. Something’s happened.”

I related Graham’s call about the rapist downtown, and as I did, I felt a sneaking qualm of doubt to go with the queasi-ness in my stomach. Was I wrong about Skull after all? Maybe Angela’s death was unrelated to Mercedes’.

“You see?” said Aaron triumphantly. “That’s who killed Angela Sims, not your phantom Dracula. And I bet I was right all along about Corinne. She was telling tall tales again, looking for sympathy.”

“But she saw Skull in the Market!”

“No law against being in the Market. Maybe he’s a big fan of vegetables.