Some would regard her merely as a single-minded, ambitious professional. A profiler. Certainly Nick would.

Okay, then. I could forget about Beverly Gardener. The real question wasn’t about her; it was about me. Was I Nick’s type? I got up and, for the second time that day, stood at the mirror analyzing my features. How would I look paired with Stiles? My hair was dark, striped with gray strands. My face was almost, but not quite, exotic. The cheekbones were prominent, the nose definite. The eyes more almond-shaped than round. Looking closer, around the eyes, I saw the unmistakable engravings of time. Not just of time. Of experience. Of humor. Of wisdom. Clearly, this woman had more to offer than some ambitious, brainy brunette. Any man worth being with could see that.

But if I had so much wisdom, why was I standing by the mirror examining myself? Nick Stiles and I had had one pleasant, personable, and mostly professional evening. That was all. True, there was good chemistry, but we were a long way from “nabbing” each other. We were still virtual strangers. More important, there was a killer to catch. Someone local. Someone I might know. Who might know me.

I plopped back on my bed and pulled up the covers. When I closed my eyes, the leggy, confident brunette leaned against Nick Stiles and twined her arms around his neck. My face itched. I scratched my cheeks and tossed but finally gave up and went downstairs, wishing I had someone to talk to. Susan was right about one point: People weren’t meant to be alone, especially at night. I flipped on the television. A car blew up in some old detective show. I changed the channel. A televangelist made an appeal for money. I changed again. A woman ran out of a house, chased by a man with a gun. I clicked the set off, and the house was silent. The StairMaster, ever persevering, offered its companionship.

“Forget it,” I said out loud. Great. I was talking to a machine. I sat down, glaring at it. It glared back, daring me to climb on, silently listing all the reasons I should, including Beverly Gardener’s legs. That did it. I flung an afghan over it and went into the kitchen.

Dawn was still far off. Molly wouldn’t be up for hours. I yearned for morning. The newspaper, coffee, my daily routine. Traffic on the street. Grinding decaf, I gazed out the window. Victor’s house was completely dark, a shadow in the night. Construction vehicles partly blocked my view, but there was a light in Charlie’s basement. I could see his shadow moving around down there, tinkering. Awake, like me.

Phillip Woods’s Santa blinked on and off, beating at the darkness. I turned on the coffeemaker and waited, sniffing the rich aroma. It was strong and familiar, reassuring. I poured a mug and felt its steam on my face. Then, letting my mind wander toward exhaustion, I stared out the window at the frigid night. Crystalline ice still coated the trees, and the glazed streets were bleak and deserted. In the black intervals between flashes of the Santa, I watched the glow of Charlie’s window and sipped warm liquid through aching lips, until finally, sometime after three, I was able to drift off. I lingered, though, wavering between wakefulness and sleep, bothered by images of seduction and murder, while faces of missing women peppered my dreams.

TWENTY

THE NOISE WAS LOUD AND JANGLING, AND IT TOOK A WHILE for me to realize it was the phone.

“Okay, I’ve relapsed. I’m crazy again. Make me a reservation at the Happy Home.” Susan sounded frantic.

Damn, I thought. Here she goes again. Maybe I should refer her to someone, get her some medication.

“Zoe, you won’t believe what happened—”

Molly ran in and jumped onto my bed, giggling. “Mommy, are you ever going to get up?”

“What?” I pulled Molly onto my bed and rolled her over for ahug.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Of course not.”

“Yes, I did. I can hear it in your voice. Get the hell up—it’s almost ten o’clock. I’ve already purchased a gun for Bonita, worked, come back, and had a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m up. You got the gun?”

“Not yet. It takes a few days. This isn’t about the gun.”

“So what happened?” Molly lay on her stomach beside me, watching me talk.

“I was in the Roundhouse this morning about that Drews case—you know, that robbery-homicide—and who do I bump into? My buddies Pete and Ed. And some new guy named Stiles.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.