Four Dead

By Jennifer DiCamillo

Two detectives race against the clock to solve the city’s worst case in years. Four victims are dead. All leads are exhausted. The murderer is still out there. Who will he pick next?

Detective Beth Thompson and her partner, Mike Barber, come to the horrifying conclusion that she is the likeliest target. Scared for her life, Beth determines to live her last week in a big way. She asks Mike to line up a date with each one of his three brothers. Her life is at stake...and also his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mojocastle Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781601801340

Book preview

Series

Chapter One

Third Tuesday of May

Police Precinct, Detective Division

Look what I have! Beth waved the latest from forensics as she half skipped into the room.

Her police blues hugged her form, exaggerated the full curves of her breasts, the paleness of her complexion, and the dark red of her hair--which, at the moment, was pulled up in a gelled-down bun. Her exuberant expression belied the image of no-nonsense professionalism she usually worked so hard to keep up.

She exclaimed, It's got to be good news. Her horoscope that morning had promised new revelations and a turning point in her life. Generic and predictable as that was, she was way overdue, and ready to put a little faith in a higher power.

A second later, she was at her desk, dropping into her seat, plopping the folder open with enthusiastic expectancy. And her partner, Mike Barber, was right behind her, leaning anxiously over her shoulder with one hand on the desk and the other on the back of her chair.

Let's hope you're right, he said.

It didn't take long to read the facts. Nothing conclusive. Disappointment welled up. Their last good lead on the four-month-old serial killer case was a dead end. Neither of them moved, and emotions came and went. They reread the info more than once. Several minutes passed, stretching into ten.

Finally, Beth closed her eyes, let her shoulders slump forward, and rested an elbow on the desk, her forehead in hand. Oh, Mike. What are we going to do?

Protectively, he moved closer. The warm baritone of his voice assured in her ear, We'll think of something. We're not out of time yet. He reached out and flicked the report, checking for more.

There was nothing else...except a sticky note from the coroner that read, Sorry. Ran it three times.

Beth wanted to cry. Instead, she whispered, So much for hope, faith, and miracles. Silently, she cursed everything astrological and vowed to cancel her morning paper.

Don't give up on me, Beth. Mike's hand slipped from the chair back to her shoulder, and he gave a little squeeze. We'll figure it out.

Her whole body jerked. There was another one of those reasons to admit defeat--and cut her losses and run. For such a brilliant detective, Mike apparently didn't have a clue about what his little touches did to her. His nearness caused flutters in her stomach, and stutters in her brain, not to mention the suffocating squeeze it put on her chest. How could he not notice?

Hands down, her life was filled with dead ends, going nowhere. At that moment, she wished to high heaven that she could walk away from him, and the case, both, and never look back. She promised herself, as soon as it was solved, she was out.

Beth knew she had to quit her job, ASAP. Before she made a fool of herself, and before he learned the truth about her.

Thinking about that made her body sag even more. She had one too many secrets. How she felt about him was just the barbed wire at the top of her prison fence, another reason to keep the bars in place. Besides, she knew all too well, when you put your heart out there, you got hurt.

Beth pushed the file an inch and muttered, I don't even care anymore.

He responded with a gruffly whispered, Liar. You care too much. His hand slid from her shoulder down to the center of her back, just over her bra strap, as she rolled her shoulders in defeat.

She was such a fraud. He was right. She did care. But, what was tearing her up most was the sense of failure...to him, and the victims, and to herself. She should've been able to figure this out by now.

Again, she let her gaze scan the forensic report in front of them. The answer to the forty million dollar question was as elusive as ever. Who was the serial killer? What creep had murdered four women in a row, and disposed of their bodies in dumpsters downtown? Beth moaned inwardly and closed her eyes, counting the days until Sunday...when their next victim was expected to turn up.

Mike's thumb slid comfortingly over her back. She let it distract her--grateful for his presence. Beth didn't dare move. She sure didn't let hope wiggle its way in. Whether it was her imagination or not, she needed the closeness, even if it was nothing more than a meaningless gesture of support. An absent caress.

Only...it didn't feel absent. It was as real as anything she'd ever felt. And it wasn't fleeting, wasn't ceasing. When she realized that, Beth's heart skipped a beat and quit on her.

The pressure of Mike's hand smoothing over her... just kept happening. Slow, frisson stirring strokes, stoking the fire inside of her.

There was no way she was going to stop him. Or draw attention to it. She suspected he didn't even realize he was doing it. His gaze was still on the report.

Heat from his body transferred to hers, warmed her through from the back to the front. And in no time at all, Beth suffered from a mini heat stroke. She couldn't breathe.

That's when her sense of humor kicked in. I need a bucket of water, ice cold, and quick. She spared a hasty glance toward the water cooler and swiftly determined that chilling out was overrated. Playing with fire, she moved backward, ever-so-slightly.

His thumb stopped moving.

The begging thought came, Don't stop now. Please don't stop touching me.

On instinct, Beth turned her head toward him, just a bit, coming in contact--skin to skin--her forehead to his cheek. He didn't back up, and neither did she.

His fingers on the report tightened their grip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tension. Oh, how she wanted to relieve that. For an instant, she fantasized about him tipping his head, taking a kiss, plunging his tongue inside her mouth.

It didn't happen, though. Seconds ticked by. Beth felt herself melting down. She wondered how a man's head could put out so much heat. How it could engender such a reaction in her body? Or the overwhelming urge to press her lips against it? And to kiss her way down past his temple to his jaw and lips?

Guilt over her physical reaction to a man she should be totally professional with began to set in. But, she told herself, it wasn't like she had any choice in the matter. Heaven knew she'd fought it all the way...was still fighting it.

She broke the contact, moving just a couple of inches, pretending it never happened. Glancing sideways at him, she wondered if he even noticed.

He wasn't looking at her. So, she took some comfort in knowing that he didn't see the flush that suffused her cheeks, making her want to fan herself. Or the way her teeth creased her lower lip, close to the point of drawing blood.

A small noise slipped from Beth's throat. A squeak. She covered it by muttering, I'm sorry, Mike. I thought we had something.

In low, sexy tones, Mike said, Beth, there's something we need--

Paper! A heavy lump landed on the desk, before she could even turn her head, or formulate mortification over the possibility that he'd figured her out. Mike and Beth both jumped.

In unison, they looked up with instant irritation as the culprit disappeared around the corner. A second later, turning to complain about the rude and abrupt interruption--their noses only inches apart--they froze.

Speechlessness and intimacy sizzled between them. She decided right then and there that she didn't want to fight it any more. Remarkably aware of his chest touching her shoulder, his fingers against the middle of her back, she waited for him to go ahead and say something.

Looking in his black Sicilian eyes, Beth wondered what Mike thought they needed. She knew what she needed--to get straight the hell out of there. Get while the getting was good. She didn't budge. But she willed him...Either take me in your arms or tell me to get lost, but do it before I die.

He didn't, even though she was doing her best to make her honey-brown eyes appeal like warm sap. Languid, sweet. Putting him on the spot, making things sticky between them. He just stared at her, searching for something. It was worse than the ten minutes they'd just gone through. This time they were looking each other in the eye, and it was a little too honest. Too close to the kiss that could not happen during work hours. Blatant desire. Tightened nostrils. Deep inhales.

She had the time to wonder again what he'd been about to say, to ponder what he was thinking, and to throw up a small, silent prayer that he'd just go with the urge and kiss her.

It was there. Both of them were feeling it.

A tick in his jaw drew her attention to his lips. The sensual lips of Adonis. The urge to kiss him rose up.

Her breasts heaved with the exertion of holding back, trying to breathe normally. Beth fought the thought of making her own overture, stepping over the line.

But then, she got a little annoyed with him for breaking through her barriers and with herself, for letting him in, Beth pouted. Her full lips pursed petulantly. Why'd he have to go and tease her like this? Get close to her? Touch her?

So close she couldn't help but think nasty thoughts. Well, not nasty, exactly. Just... intimate. She wanted to undo his tie, start by kissing his neck... Her gaze dropped to the pulse in his throat. Thick, slow and steady. Bulging vein, throbbing consistently.

It was all she could do not to groan aloud. It was all his fault. Her brow furrowed. He teased her like this way too often, like he might actually cross the lines of propriety. Not that he was doing much.

Touching her. It was mean. Part of her wanted to push him away, make him get out of her space.

Mike's whole body was stiff. He didn't appear to be breathing. He sure as hell wasn't moving.

Realizing that, Beth decided, maybe you're not as immune as you like me to think, Mr. Barber. She grinned. Her nymphomaniac imp took control.

Freaking tease. You need a push, don't you? Mr. Self-control. I'd like to see you lose it, for once.

Rational thoughts to quell her natural imp seemed to be lost. Usually laced up tight during business hours, Beth was a little surprised at the rampant train running through her brain. It was his damn cologne. Had to be. What the hell was it? Pheromones?

Mike cleared his throat.

Beth's eyes went wide. The frown disappeared, expectancy resurfaced.

He was struggling to say something. She could tell. It was about time.

Go ahead, Mike. Struggle. Glad to know I'm not the only one. Her lips twisted a little.

Adjusting ever so slightly, he tipped toward her. More touching from that arm behind her. His thumb moved again.

Another caress? Okay. That was not her imagination.

All doubt of swooning went out the window. Who was she to fight instinct? After all, the guy was reeking sensuality. His cologne was knocking her over with the urge to pant and beg. Surely he could see what he was doing to her? She licked her lips, getting ready. If he didn't kiss her quick, she'd do it. Take the plunge.

Mike glanced from her eyes to her lips, teetered a little, then jerked his head away. The headline on the paper caught his attention.

Beth closed her eyes for a second, disappointment breaking her heart. Not again. I must be a fool, imagining things that aren't there.

Before she could beat herself up for not seizing the moment or for hoping too much, Mike said, Now there's a headline designed to instill comfort and security.

Beth opened her eyes.

The paper boldly asked: FOUR DEAD: WHO'S NEXT?

She let out a little squeak of exasperation, then grunted and pushed Mike out of her way. Idiot! She was talking to the paper, or whoever at the paper had written that headline, but it could have applied to herself--or her partner--just as well. Beth looked for the byline. Who wrote this?

Does it matter? Mike straightened his back, tucked in his shirt, readjusted his tie. Damage is done. It's all over town by now.

Beth pursed her lips. I thought we had damage control on stuff like this. Make a call, Mike, or I will.

He grinned. Detective Beth Thompson, on the warpath again, called the newspaper to complain. Doesn't quite have the impact it did four months ago, Beth.

She'd called almost daily, for nearly four months, lodging complaints about the media coverage on their serial killer case.

I know. That's why I want you to call. She swiveled her chair and tipped it back so she could look up at him. They know who you are.

Oh, I think they know who you are, too.

Beth shook her head, making a face. You can use my phone. Just hit redial.

From deep in his chest, Mike rumbled, I'd like to call--and give them the answer.

She quipped, You're the city's brightest and finest, why don't you?

She picked up a pencil, played with it nervously while staring straight at him, trying to look cool. Trying to clear her head now that he wasn't so close.

His proximity was still addling her brain. Clever wasn't coming today, apparently. She swallowed hard.

That sounds like a great idea. How about I just pick a perpetrator out of thin air, nail him quick, and... His brown eyes darkened to almost black, his voice lowered an octave. Then maybe we could get a decent night's sleep for once.

Beth stoically held her ground, not moving a muscle in her face, desperately trying to think of a comeback to that one. She hadn't slept right since she met the man. It was cruel of him to bring up bed.

The serial killer wasn't helping, either. She wanted nothing better than to sleep like a rock. She'd done nothing but toss and turn and sweat over two stupid men. One, a...pervert. The other? Beth looked Mike up and down, keying in below the belt.

Blink. Look away. Look up. He knows you're staring. Jeez. Talk about tacky. Redirect, girl. Come up with a good 'go to hell.'

Finally, she managed to spread a smile, lift her chin, and look him in the eye again. If you're having trouble sleeping, Mike, maybe you should try--

He watched her face, obviously amused. What, Beth? Suggestively, he goaded, What should I try?

Oh, never mind. She turned her attention back to the paper, effectively blocking his view of it--and her face. She was all out of wit. Absently, the pencil went up and into the tightly gelled bun on top of her head.

A few seconds ticked by before Mike moved. Slipping out of her workstation, moseying back to his own desk, he asked, You think I have what it takes to be a hero?

Beth had re-read the headline three times. A myriad of suggestions for how Mike's sleep habits could be improved were dancing through her brain. Hm? Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

His question sunk in. She glanced up, taking him in--for the millionth time. Well over six feet, Dark Irish/Sicilian heritage shining through, features of a male underwear model. Better looking than Superman, Batman and the Incredible Hulk all rolled into one.

He had his back to her. His God-help-her- incredible-hulking back. Definition of the Greeks. The most decorated detective in the city. Hero material? Oh, definitely.

Like she was gonna feed that ego.

She picked up the paper, flattened it out and concentrated. Below the fear-inducing headline, the article asked, What do we know about the serial killer stalking our streets?

Beth muttered, Not enough.

What? Mike glanced down at himself.

She didn't notice. Info. We don't know enough about our killer.

Oh. Relief evident in his expression, Mike said, Tell me something I don't know, Beth.

Engrossed in the paper, Beth read on. Bannered beneath the question were pictures of the four dead women that had been linked to one m.o., HE LIKES REDHEADS centered as a secondary headline.

She read it out loud. Here's some earth shattering news. He likes redheads, Mike.

Who doesn't?

Beth missed his comment. She really was trying to tune him out. Reading further, she learned that local sales of hair dye were up. Red, orange and pink weren't moving at all. Blond and electric blue were selling through the roof.

Beth rolled her eyes. Here's something. Even the punks are scared.

Paper says that?

Beth shrugged. Pretty much. And here's a sad bit of news. Our boy's affecting the theaters. Says here... Movie tickets are down. All-time low.

Is that so? Maybe it's time to take in a show.

Again, Beth didn't catch the hint. Instead, she grunted irritably. It goes on to make a blaring statement that local businesses are all suffering. That people should not be afraid.

We don't want a mass panic.

It compares fatality statistics from driving and accidents in the home to the possibility of being killed by the stalker. Now she was mad. What is this? Worry about the local economy spurs the media to send women to their death?

Beth set the paper aside. Infuriated, she growled, Go ahead, girls, walk the streets, end up in a dumpster, but by all means, let's not let theater sales go down. Her hands sliced through the air, accentuating her grievances in choppy motions.

Mike glanced sideways at her as he dropped into his own chair. I'll bet Chinese takeout and pizza deliveries aren't complaining.

Moving files around her desk, she grumbled some more, Probably somebody that can't hold a conversation... She reached for the paper again, frowning, while looking for a byline. Yep. A man. I knew it!

Mike's eyebrow went up, but he wisely kept his lips shut.

Beth's aggravation, her personal frustration, picked up momentum. She threw the paper into the trash can. Heaven forbid men have to hold a conversation with you on a date now. What? She mimicked, "She won't go out in the dark? She expects you to communicate...? Slamming the forensic report closed, dropping it on the top of her piled folders, she added, There's a foreign concept... assuming you can get a date in the first place."

Mike asked carefully, You looking for one?

An odd noise came from somewhere deep in Beth's chest. Looking up from her work-cluttered desk at the cork-board on the wall, she asked, What? She had to backtrack through her ramblings.

A date.

Did it sound like I was asking for one? She winced inwardly.

Not exactly.

She breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't come off needy.

He prompted, So...what? You need someone to talk to?

She stared at the information posted on the board, unseeing, really, the map on it--marked at four points with thumbtacks, where bodies had been found over that many months. This was not a safe topic of conversation, even if he was clear across the room, in his own space.

Oh yeah. She needed someone to talk to. Someone beside the victims. She'd been talking to them for months.

Pictures of the four women stared at her, like they had in the paper. Same photos. Same lineup, in order of their deaths. Their names in black ink were attached with index cards. Murder dates blared in bold red lettering beneath.

As always, the information stole her train of thought. Vaguely, she said, "I don't need anybody else, thanks." She thought, if he offers to set me up-- I might commit justifiable homicide. She willed him, Don't do it, Mike. I'd hate to have to shoot you.

He stayed silent.

She grinned, though, when she added a second later, But take my word for it, movies are the root of all evil. I wouldn't go if the tickets were free and the red carpet was laid out. She knew that for a fact.

Mike commented idly, I don't do movies...often.

No. He did everything else, and he loved to tell about his escapades. Beth gritted her teeth. She said, I know that. You're the original Mr. Wine-and-Dine.

With every girl on the planet but me.

Noting that Victim Three's picture was a little lopsided, Beth tipped her head sideways, lining up with the angle of it, then asked herself under her breath, What man did you trust?

Mike's gaze followed Beth's motions. He winced when she spoke. He had to say, You have to trust somebody, Beth.

Au contraire. She shook her head. The evidence warned differently. I bet somebody said that to them, too. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she caught a whiff of Mike's cologne again. For a moment, she closed her eyes and savored the scent.

Cologne of Satan. The sex god that led her brain off the deep end. She had to shake her head to clear the thoughts.

Concentrate, Beth. If you don't, someone's gonna die.

Chapter Two

The first victim turned up just after Christmas in a dumpster downtown. No visible marks on the body. Beth reviewed the order of events. One a month, like clockwork.

Mike added, Yep. Fourth Sunday of each month.

They often went through the basics of the case like that. Verbally confirming the details. Nothing had changed in ages. In that, they took little comfort.

We're due, Mike. Beth's gaze keyed in on the fifth date card which signaled the expected arrival of the next victim. Ugly Sunday's coming quick. Five days.

I can count.

They were stumped. Maybe a little too distracted.

Beth wished her gray matter would help out a little. All she could really think about was Mike. He consumed her thoughts--when they should be working on the case. It made her angry at him, and at herself. She knew she had to watch her every move, guard her tongue, get a grip.

He was wrong, too. She couldn't even trust herself. How could she trust someone else?

She didn't really have time to lament her lack of dates, did she? Who would she go out with, anyway? He wasn't asking, and he was the only one she wanted to spend time with. Beth breathed through her nose. She had to get him out of her head.

Focusing on the evidence again, Beth's mind connected the similarities between her life and the victims. Reports showed that the women were heavily involved in their occupations, rarely went on dates, and often worked late. No known emotional attachments.

Redirecting her thoughts, she asked the dead women, What made you special? A city full of women who fit your profile, what are we missing?

Beth had asked it a hundred times. Various other cards with tidbits of information were stuck to the board, but none of them revealed what they needed most, the identity of the murderer. She scanned them all again. There was no concrete evidence.

Getting up, she skirted her desk, approached the corkboard and adjusted that third picture, making it hang straight. Her mind off on a random tangent, she asked, What if the guy's a follower of some warped cult? She snapped her fingers. Or the old Mosaic law? You know, only goes so many steps on Sunday or something. I mean, we know Sunday's a special day for him.

There's a religion for you. Mike was cleaning up his workspace, preparing to go home. Taking a sip from his coffee, he added facetiously, I can't walk any farther on Sunday night than it takes to grab a girl and drop her in a dumpster.

Beth ignored his comment. Maybe we should measure the distance from the dumpsters to... something. Find a common point?

A synagogue or shrine, maybe? Mike got up, rinsed his mug at the water cooler. That seems a little farfetched, don't you think?

Perhaps. She was still working on the idea. They all seemed farfetched at first. She owed it to victim number five to follow the thought through.

Scratching his ear, Mike glanced up at the board, and her backside. What are you doing now? Going after a religious motive?

Beth moved away from the display, going back to her desk. It's one angle we haven't really gone into. She dropped heavily into her chair, looked around for her pencil, remembered it was in her bun, and pulled it out. Thumbing through things on her desk, looking for the city map, she tapped it like a drummer in absent song. Is there a synagogue anywhere near--

Hell. Let's pin this one on a Muslim, Beth. Forget the Jews. We'll probably be promoted, given the state of things in the third world. Mike made his way back to his desk.

Neither one of them was racist, nor religiously biased. She happened to know that Mike's circle of friends included people of all faiths just as hers did. So, she hesitated in her search, eyeing her partner as he sat down again. Funny, Mike.

She'd figured out one thing; the map wasn't on her desk. Beth leaned over, double-checking the trash can and floor, in case it had fallen off. Like we have a choice. We can't pin this on anyone, let alone pick the target.

"Ah. A framing. The good old days. Where did they go? We could try, you know. I always wanted to be dirty."

Beth's head came up quick.

Mike grinned wickedly, now that he really had her attention. Holding up the city map, he asked, You looking for this?

He knew her too well, and not well enough.

Tossing the map over to her desk, he added, "Religious and political angles are always great motives. They make movies out of things like that. Wish we could nail a fanatic. But I already checked. Our girls didn't go to church. Remember?"

I know. I know. Maybe that's his problem with them.

Mike wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

She knew he went on instinct, and was good at it. She tried, Okay. None of them were active politically, either. I checked that. And you covered the educational and occupational angles.

I'm telling you...we're good together, Beth.

Her mind finally out of the gutter, Beth rolled her eyes and shook her head. Our humility has no limits or foundation, Mike. She frittered the pencil against one hand now, her gaze on the board. There has to be something that connects the whole dumpster and redhead's thing. I mean, serial killers are methodical, and our guy is definitely that.

She pointed at the map on the wall. Look at that. He had to take a lot of time to find redheads that looked so much alike, who lived so close together, but varied in personal information so much. Maybe years of planning this. Setting the pencil aside, she squared the map on her desk, adjusted the magnifying lens and looked for a synagogue, or temple, or mosque, or anything of that nature that lay in the vicinity of the murders.

I wonder how long he watched her before he made his move.

Hm? She didn't look up.

I bet he savored watching. I mean, he definitely has a preference or two. They look too much alike to say different.

She agreed, Yep.

Mike wondered idly, Is there any known record for how long a serial killer stalked his victim before killing her? Where would you go to look something like that up?

I have no idea. The library, maybe? Beth kept perusing the map with attention to the finer details. Did you know there's a zoo over on Central?

Nah. Really?

Beth frowned. Probably. I wonder if it's getting any more action these days, being a daytime business and all. Her finger slid over the lines on the map. That's right over by my apartment complex. I'll have to check it out sometime.

Mike tended to one-track. There's got to be a police report on it. We make reports for everything. He shoved a few finished reports into the out bin.

Beth looked up. On the zoo?

Nah. The s.k. trivia.

It took Beth a minute, again, to back track. Oh. A psych thesis maybe would include that kind of information. We should ask the precinct shrink, next time he comes around. She watched Mike, wondering if he ever caught her hints about dating.

Apparently not.

He said, I think I will.

Beth mumbled, You could probably win a bet down at the pub with info like that. She allowed a tongue-in-cheek grin to slip over her features.

You never know. Men have won and lost fortunes over bets worth nothing to women.

Guess it's all in where we put our value. Beth went back to examining the map. Bingo. Found a shrine. Putting a finger on the spot, she pulled some sticky notes forward, then began scribbling furiously. First, she wrote, How long? Then, How far? and of course, the closest intersection to the shrine.

She flipped open the first victim's file, scanned the contents, and found that the girl had lived in her apartment only three months before her death. Successively, Beth went through the other files. Random timing. No similarities there. Not discouraged, Beth analyzed the distances from the dumpsters they were found in--to their homes. And to the Shrine Mosque. There was nothing similar, as far as she could see.

Organizing the scribbles, Beth transferred the data to one index card. Although it didn't seem to reveal anything pertinent, she smiled to herself as she got up and tacked her latest brainstorm onto the board.

A small index card with equations on it. And another--the reminder to ask the shrink for s.k. trivia.

Mike's left eyebrow went up. What's that? More Thompson insanity?

The board was covered in disjointed figuring. So desperate for any new lead, she'd grasped at the possibility that there was a pattern somewhere. One by one, cards had been posted with everything she could think of, from the victim's astrological signs to their addresses, their places of employment. The initial basics of any good investigation, to the somewhat more bizarre.

Next, I'm gonna try numerological comparisons of their birth dates.

The thought came without warning, followed quickly by, Hm. Apparently, I haven't given up completely on the whole higher energy concept. Surely there's some truth to it?

A girl could hope.

Knock yourself out. Mike rearranged some files, straightened everything around his seat. His desk was like unto hers, with the computer to one side, file keeper to the other.

His attention strayed from the case to a folder he kept locked in the center drawer of his desk. He hesitated before taking it out.

We're running out of time, Mike.

They both knew it. She didn't have to say it. She couldn't help it. They'd been working through the information and evidence for months, silently. She insisted on brainstorming aloud. Using every minute they had together.

Desperate to keep him...from going out on a date with someone else.

Repeating the bald facts, she said, The serial killer had a penchant for redheads and took his time in selecting them. She winced, A month apart. What's he do during that month?

Who knows? Mike opened the folder. Probably just watches her from afar.

Why do I get the feeling that we're threading an invisible needle with transparent thread? I wish I could see the trap we need to set... and just get it done. You know?

Beth glanced over at Mike as he lifted the file from his drawer. He pulled it out and tipped his chair away from her, so she couldn't see the contents of it. Rearranging the pictures where several were visible at one time, Mike tried to figure out what was nagging at the edge of his conscience.

His shouldering away from her irked Beth visibly. He was keeping something from her. She just knew it!

He did the same thing before going home every day, and sometimes in the mornings and after lunch. She was itching to get in there and see what it was, but he was too quick. Every time she tried to slip around for a glance, he'd put it away. And the desk drawer automatically locked. It made it easy for him to keep his secrets.

If he knew how many times she'd considered picking that lock!

The man was making her miserable. For a brilliant detective, he'd become more and more brash to her over the course of time they'd been partnered together, in spite of her efforts to be completely professional. The tension timetable they were working under was getting to both of them, making them testy. Not to mention the heightening awareness they suffered from.

Frustrated, irritated, she asked, Don't you have a dinner to get to?

He'd mentioned