Hidden Design, the Prophecy

By Tia Tormen and CK Stone

An ancient Prophecy, foretold millennia ago . . .
Child of the traitor
Conceived in betrayal
Shall pierce the veil
And destroy the hidden

Mikki Daneen is living the life she's always dreamed but she hides an extraordinary gift; the ability to perceive her clients' most intimate desires. A secret liaison brings death and destruction to Mikki's life, but she's not the only one in danger. Mikki must uncover the secrets of a culture she never knew existed, and expose the true betrayer.
Hidden Design, The Prophecy, is a full-length contemporary fantasy-thriller novel that contains elements of romantica.
The story is set in New York City where Mackenzie Daneen is a successful interior designer, in part because she can psychically link into the most secret desires of her special clients and give them exactly what they want. Mikki is on top of her world until an old boyfriend/FBI agent asks her to glean details on a kidnapping suspect, Seth Harkinson, by using her psychic ability. When she learns more than she bargained for, her life starts falling apart. Through Seth, she uncovers the truth; she may be the child the prophecy speaks of. She runs for her life from a demon-possessed beast that is hell-bent on hunting down and killing the innocent children who possess magical gifts; children of whom the prophecy may speak.
While she and Seth fight for their lives, they discover they have a connection that runs deeper than either of them imagined. Will her psychic visions be able to help them find the evil that is driven relentlessly to slaughter, before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silken Slipstream Press
• Release date: Sep 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9780990772712

Tia Tormen

Tia Tormen is a writer, photographer, graphic designer, videographer, video editor, make-up artist and poet. She has also studied psychology and loves to do dream interpretation. She spends her days working a regular job and her early mornings and evenings writing. When she isn’t writing she can be found doing photography on the weekends or studying the ancient martial arts, Tang Soo Do Karate and Haidong Gumdo Sword, or attending her writing and critique group in the evenings. She is a mother of five children and has enjoyed every insane minute. Her loves include double chocolate chunk ice cream, Dove dark chocolate and CK, of course. Her favorite quote is from the RHPS; “Don’t dream it . . . be it!” She firmly believes that life is what you make it and is living her life to the fullest. Tia Tormen has a short story published in the ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer, “A Fable of Enduring Love” that she is particularly fond of. www.thewritelovers.blogspot.com She has two fine art photography books available: Naked in the Light, books one and two. Both are available by contacting Tia through her website: www.tiatormen.com Hidden Design, the Prophecy, is her first full length novel, with co-author CK Stone.

Book preview

In loving memory of

Dae Russ

May the path you now take, bring you everlasting peace

Hidden Design, the Prophecy

By Tia Tormen and CK Stone

The Prophecy

Child of the traitor

Conceived in betrayal

Shall pierce the veil

And destroy the hidden

This novel is intended for mature readers

The story contains scenes of graphic sex and violence

Prologue

Sateen

With their first brush of contact, impressions from Ray Lee flooded Mikki's mind. Eagerness, anticipation, happiness at seeing her again and hope that there might be something more between them--that was the puzzling one. There was also a little apprehension about what she might think of him.

She stepped into Ray Lee's flat, processing the new information and leaned against a fairly clean wall to get an initial sense of his place.

His eyes sparkled. Mikki, it's so cool that you're here. I'm so glad the 'legendary' Mackenzie Daneen has the time to redesign and decorate my home.

Mikki laughed. I'm not legendary . . . not yet. She looked around the room. The mismatched furniture was best described as Dumpster Chic. It looked like he had picked it up off the curb before New York City Sanitation could beat him to it.

Vincent, her boss, once told her that diplomacy was one of the most critical aspects of her job; that she didn't want to insult the client's taste in decor while suggesting how she'd change things. However, taking account of the room from her safety position, she said, Ray, to be honest, I'm not sure you really need an interior designer. You need two cans of gasoline and a lighter. Somehow, she suspected Vincent would disapprove of recommending arson.

Ray Lee laughed from his awkward perch on the back of a repulsive puce sofa. At twenty-one, skinny, with lank brown hair sporting one green streak, and skin pale from too little sunlight, he wasn't typical of most of the clients she worked with. With direction from Vincent, she'd mostly been doing rooms for yuppies on tight budgets and occasionally served as assistant on larger accounts. Vincent called it her apprenticeship, and thus far she'd been garnering mixed reviews.

Aw, come on, Ray Lee said, grinning shyly. It's not that bad, is it? He wore thick, geeky black glasses, baggy jeans, and a black t-shirt advertising Bondage Bear, some band she'd never heard of. Mikki had grown up around money, but had never seen a more improbable millionaire than Ray Lee, bassist for Tainted Collision.

Yes, Ray . . . it is that bad. You may think I'm not being fair, but it looks pretty scary.

The furniture and floor were buried beneath layers of detritus, mostly-empty carry-out containers, scores of anime plushies, DVDs and video tapes, scattered books and piles of comics, games for the numerous video game systems scattered around the huge television and assorted pieces of clothing that had either never made it into the hamper, or were trying to escape.

Ray Lee shrugged and hopped from the back of the sofa. If you think this room is scary, wait till you see the kitchen.

Mikki shuddered; she had wondered where the pungent odor of decomposition was coming from.

Ray, she said. I hope you're not expecting to see your damage deposit again.

He laughed. You know, that's what Mr. Rosen used to say, back before I bought this building off of him.

Mikki cocked an eyebrow. You own this whole brownstone?

He nodded, not meeting Mikki's gaze. Yup. All three floors of it.

Mikki nodded, soothing herself. Okay, she thought. I may have more to work with than I realized. Her professional demeanor strengthened--just a little.

Um, Ray said, you're looking at this wrong.

What do you mean? Mikki asked, shaking herself free from her own thoughts.

You're missing the good parts; my place has nowhere to go but up, and you have a pretty good budget to play with.

He had a point. Define 'pretty good.'

Umm . . . blank check?

Ooh, she said, her spirits rising. Those are two very dangerous words to use around an interior designer.

It's okay, he said, turning his face to hers. I trust you. He smiled.

Thank you, she said. Though I have to ask, why me? I mean, I know we were in high school together, but . . .

You don't remember me? he asked, not sounding at all hurt.

Barely, she confessed.

That's okay, he said. You were two grades ahead of me; I really wasn't one of your crowd.

I never thought I had a 'crowd.'

He shrugged nervously. Maybe. I never had the guts to say anything to you. You were, you know, beautiful. And you were always nice to me. You were nice to everybody. Even people who didn't deserve it.

Well, I'm definitely glad you remembered me.

He blushed slightly. I just . . . you know . . . thought you might like to work on a big project. I mean, I heard you just got started, and figured you probably weren't doing anything really cool yet.

Thank you. I'm flattered.

She had only been working with Vincent at An Intimate Touch for about eight months. He had faith in her talent, but not her experience. When Ray called the company insisting that he would only accept the services of The legendary Mikki Daneen, Vincent said he had laid it on a touch thick and she thought somebody was pranking her. At first, she hadn't even remembered the awkward kid she'd gone to school with.

But, this was no joke. A major account, all to herself. Free rein to completely transform somebody's entire living space. It was an extraordinary opportunity, one that simultaneously thrilled and terrified her. The opportunity of a lifetime depending on what she did with this . . . disaster area? Demilitarized zone? Toxic waste dump?

Blank check. She shivered from a brief surge of adrenaline. Thanks, Ray, she said. I won't let you down. So, let's see the rest of your place.

The kitchen . . . she wasn't going in there without a full hazmat suit. The second bedroom; Ray had made a half-hearted attempt to turn it into his office. The bathroom . . . better hang on to that hazmat suit.

And this, Ray said, is my room. He walked across it to turn on a light in an oversized, surprisingly clean aquarium where three or four small Koi fish swam under pink and white lotus flowers and floating lily pads. Ceiling light's burned out, he said. I've been meaning to replace it, but I'd need to get a ladder and . . . he shrugged.

The dim light from the aquarium shimmered, half-revealing a room that was uncluttered compared to the rest of the apartment. Posters decorated the walls, a tightly packed shelf adorned with chrome-plated shuriken overhung a small table stacked with shelves of action figures. The bed itself was made up with a clean, white sateen comforter and matching toss pillows. An expensive-looking computer sat on a small desk near the closet. In the far shadow-drenched corner sat a bass guitar, held upright in a stand.

Ray's bass was pristine, its lacquered blue finish reflecting the aquarium's dancing light. The guitar, primary among these things, stood apart, but the other elements in this room, these were the important things; these were the items Ray prized.

For the first time since arriving, Mikki felt that she was seeing Ray as he really was: a decent guy who, by talent or luck, had landed a cushy gig.

Nice instrument, she said stepping over to where the guitar sat displayed, lightly running her fingers down its long neck.

Ray beamed, and suddenly looked relaxed for the first time since she'd arrived. Thanks. That's Loretta. He stepped from behind Mikki and picked it up, threw the strap over his shoulder, and casually played a brief riff. She's a six-string fretless Fender. Bought her with the money we made when our first batch of songs caught on and started selling. Named her after a girl I knew.

He played the melody again, now strong and clear. Whoa, he said, looking at his hands as if surprised to see what they were doing. That's not bad.

I like it, she said.

Me too, he said, paying more attention to the music than to her. His fingers danced along the instrument neck, coaxing out myriad variations of the same basic riff. Yeah. There's something here. I think I really like that. Record it, he said to himself, nodding. Yeah, yeah, gotta get this down.

The music abruptly stopped. Using his toe, Ray nudged a switch on a small metal box on the floor. The computer monitor glowed to life, showing a program already running. He played again, a jagged green line on the screen danced to the music. He picked through a more refined version of the tune he'd been playing.

Mikki was amazed to watch as this man, this musician, let the world fall away as he immersed himself in his music. The air seemed to shimmer around him. It reminded her of the way heat rippled off of sidewalks in the summer. She saw it nagging at the edge of her vision and felt it wash over her as he played. It was as if Ray was heating his whole world with his passion. She felt the hair on her neck rise and goosebumps chase down her arms in response.

He stopped to toe a roller ball on the floor, and played back what he'd recorded. Good, he said, as the computer repeated what he had just played. Yeah, that's real good.

I take it I just witnessed the birth of a song? she asked, smiling.

Ray flushed with the glow of creativity. I think so. Might wind up calling this one 'Mikki's song.' Why not?

Mikki felt her cheeks warm slightly. Her professionalism slipped a little.

Ray chuckled. Maybe I'll even try and write the lyrics myself, he said. A dippy love song might be fun.

Nothing dippy about love songs, as long as they're good. You made that look so easy. Can you show me how to play? she asked, motioning towards his bass. More of her precarious professionalism dropped. I'm just getting to understand my client better. Professionals do that.

He hesitated.

Don't want me touching Loretta? she asked.

He shook his head. No, it's not that, it's just . . . a fretless isn't newbie-friendly. Hang on a sec.

He opened his closet and pulled out a guitar case. It was black, worn in places, and covered in stickers with pithy sayings. My guitar from high school, he said and pulled the instrument from the case.

As smoothly beautiful as Loretta was, this one was equally worn and used. No stickers adorned it, but different colored lacquers, two mismatched pickups and long loops of replaced strings made it something of an oddity.

But that's not a bass.

Well, no. This is the one I learned to play on before I took up the bass. She's the one I always go back to.

And what's her name?

Ray blushed, deeply. Uhm, he stammered. I named her after a girl.

Was it someone you dated?

Ray lowered his gaze to the guitar and set to tuning the strings. No. Just a girl I liked.

A thought struck her. Ray, you didn't name your first guitar after me, did you?

He blushed so brightly she thought his cheeks might catch fire. Maybe.

She clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a brief laugh. I'm honored, she said, smiling wide as she placed her hands over her heart. Really.

Ray grinned, nervously. So, uhm, Mikki, would you like to play Mikki?

She nodded. It seemed as though a spark of invisible energy surged from Ray to the guitar and then to Mikki when she grasped the instrument.

She could feel it humming when he plugged it in and helped her get the strap over her head and across her body. He settled the weight of the guitar onto her shoulders and told her how to grasp the neck.

I'm not getting it, she said. Could you show me, please?

He reached for the guitar, awkwardly. Not from this angle, no. He hesitantly stepped behind her, his body conforming to the curves of her back. He reached his left arm under hers; when she moved to accommodate him, his trembling hand brushed against her.

Like this, he said, wrapping his fingers under the neck of the guitar. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her ear. Your fingers do all the work, and you want to keep your thumb out of the way. It's more like . . .

Caressing it? she said. Like this? She placed her hand over his, mimicking him. She got her second taste of Ray's mind, drinking deeply of the sensation of a stranger become intimate. Without thought she became aware of his apprehension about her, but also the unmistakable pleasure he was feeling through the simple act of teaching her.

He slid his hand out from under hers. Yeah. Like that. Now, you, uh, you pluck the strings, like this. He reached his right arm around hers, guiding her index finger across a string. The guitar thrummed gently.

I get it, she said.

Good, he said. Now just play the notes like this, wait, I have an idea.

Not letting go of her right hand, he reached his left back around her and placed his fingers over her own, his fingers guided hers, pressing them into the cool, metal strings as he led her in plucking out a slow, simple riff.

There you go, he breathed. Do it again, just like that.

She plucked the strings, playing the notes as he had shown her. Four notes, then the same notes a third up then the first four again.

Now, he said. Watch this. His fingers touched the strings she didn't, plucking them at different intervals and tempos. An intricate musical counterpoint developed as each note she played was complemented by the trilling riffs he wove into her simple run.

There was something significant here. It was more than just the track and their own playing. It was more than just the music. Mikki could feel the exhilaration emanating from his body, but there was something going on beyond that. This was Ray Lee at his ecstatic best. Warmth and color flowed from him in unselfconscious brilliance, flooding her senses. Her hands continued their rhythmic journey on the strings, of their own accord. Their shared music took shape. It grew and burgeoned into an entity of its own. It had form. It had texture. It reveled in itself, providing its own reason for existence and challenging anyone or anything to take it away. This was Ray Lee's love. This was his passion.

Mikki couldn't catch her breath. Unconsciously, she pressed back into Ray Lee. Glorious visions swept her along, a hapless straw in the grip of a hurricane. The fierce heat of his body, matching his profound fervor for the music.

Overwhelmed by what they had done together, Mikki's fingers faltered on the strings. After a run of off-cadence plucks and wrong notes, Mikki dropped her hands to her side. She stood, unable to continue from the sheer impact of Ray's intensity.

His hands faltered. Mikki? Are you okay?

She stood, mute, stunned.

Mikki? Ray smoothly undid the strap and set the instrument aside. When he turned back to her, she stood directly in front of him.

She could see his hands shaking and knew it was from the same intensity she felt. She peered into his face in the dim light and saw the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes.

That's what I hear. That's what I feel.

Omigod, Ray . . . And they flowed into each other's arms.

Exhilaration surged through her as their mouths sought each other. Countless passion-blurred images fought for predominance. Eager hands sought to undo buttons, belts and clasps. No gentle languid exploration of the senses, this was a passion-driven, desire-based need for shared release. This was what Ray did for the music and what the music did for Ray.

She panted. Please, Ray . . .

He nodded, flushed and too excited to speak. She guided him to the bed and lay down. She took off her panties while he undid his jeans and pushed down his boxers. He grabbed something off the nightstand and she watched impatiently as he unrolled the condom down the length of his trembling cock.

He rolled on top of her, panting, his eyes wide and wild as he hiked up her skirt. He kissed her again, furiously, guiding himself into her as their lips met.

Mikki moaned and arched her hips to accept his body as he drove himself deep inside her. Her heart beat furiously; her breath coming in short startled gasps each time their bodies thrust together.

Ray's deep brown eyes gazed into hers, lost in the sensations their bodies created. He kissed her deeply as his entire body tensed, and he plunged deep inside her again and again.

Her moans of desire matched his shudders and she cried out as pounding waves of pleasure coursed through her.

Ray wasn't going to last long that way--but neither was Mikki. Her breath grew more and more ragged, matching Ray's, until at last they both cried out from the ecstasy of release and their bodies locked together, pulsing in unison.

His mind opened completely to her, images from the most intimate corners of his psyche washed over her. His favorite ice cream: Rocky Road. A dog named Wally. His fantasies: the two of them alone in their high school music room, and his confession to her of how he secretly always thought she was way hot. A memory: Ray's band blowing the roof off a smoky, low-rent nightclub in the Bronx, thunderous applause from the awestruck crowd. A sensation: hot, sweat-soaked guitar strings thrumming beneath his fingers. Memory scraps and bits of personal history that defined who he was. One after the other they raced through her mind, leaving an afterimage like the brilliance of fireworks against an inky night sky.

Ray collapsed onto her, spent and gasping for breath. Mikki lay panting beneath him, caressing his sweat-slicked back with one hand, weaving the fingers of her other hand through his hair. Outside in the street, the sounds of car horns and beeping alarms sounded in an odd harmonic accompaniment to the music that still emanated from the computer and speakers. Savoring the post-orgasmic calm, she sifted through the flood of information.

Her insights came quickly and easily when she was aroused, blossoming into a complete bonding when she reached climax; and given how easily she picked up on and shared her lovers' moods, that was often. Just about every time she made love, she went away physically satisfied and carrying a stunning trove of intimate insight into her partner's mind.

Ray Lee kissed each of her eyelids, trailing his lips over the bridge of her nose and across her cheek. Mikki, he murmured. You're so beautiful . . . He rolled off her and pulled her into his arms in one motion. They lay together naked, his arm wrapped around her. Mikki, using his shoulder as a pillow, caressed his chest with her fingertips. She mulled over what had just happened, sorting through the muddle of images Ray had unwittingly shared with her.

She'd had psychic flashes back in high school. Her friends told her that she shouldn't expect much from her first time, that sex wouldn't be that good until she got used to it. But she'd made liars out of all of them on the night she finally agreed to go all the way with her boyfriend, his naked lust intoxicating her, carrying her into her first orgasm.

The images that came with the climax, the impossible, overwhelming details of his mind . . . all those things she learned in those few moments, why the hell hadn't anybody ever told her about that?

She had learned to listen to that sense, that abstract voice in her head, no matter how illogical it seemed.

He had very little to hide. All he wanted out of life was to play music, and be recognized for playing it well. Most people had fantasies about getting rich, or getting even with the people who had done them wrong. Ray's were about rewarding the people who'd been good to him.

Mikki chuckled at the thought. Sometimes it was nice to be good. His tastes were interesting though, like his thing for anime. It was more than just a passing fancy, or a love of animated, Japanese schoolgirls. The art form itself captivated him, the bold colors, the sweeping stories, the over-the-top heroics. If it was possible, he'd live in an anime.

The thought struck her like a slap to the face. She jolted violently, rousing Ray.

Wha . . . ? he asked.

She stared wide-eyed at the wall. Light from the aquarium shimmered across it.

Yes. Yes, it was a good idea. No, an excellent idea!

Ray's home was going to be anime nirvana.

Bold, primary colors. Silly, pseudo-Japanese furniture. Lots of mellifluous lines and sleek textures--luxurious things to touch and enjoy. His comics and videos would not be hidden; they would be displayed proudly in a sunlit pergola. There would be a manga portrait of the band. A mural-sized LED TV, showing his favorite movie--Princess Mononoke--at a rate of one frame per hour. Sinuous furniture, smooth plastics, sensuous silks and flowing sateen, all evocative of his music. This was important, too.

It was going to be Ray's apartment. Ray's home would be just his, a sanctuary, bold and beautiful, with . . . with . . .

Mikki? Ray asked. Are you all right?

She nodded. Oh, yes. She was all right. She was very, very all right.

What else could she do for Ray? She wasn't certain. She hadn't gotten enough. She hadn't been looking.

But it was all in there. His ideal living space, drawn directly from his subconscious, a place that would soothe, or inspire him like no other place in the world could. It was there. Waiting for her to find it. And now she knew what to look for to give him exactly what he wanted.

She sat up, quaking with excitement. We're going again, she said, throwing a leg over his waist and leaning down to kiss him.

Fine by me, he said between kisses, his body already responding to her touch.

Only this time, she breathed in his ear as she kissed it, "you're going to show me what you really want.

Chapter One

Gossamer

Mackenzie Daneen wheeled her red Mercedes Coupe into the parking entrance for the Federal Building. FBI Agent Paul Wilkins stood outside the security kiosk. A wide grin split his face and lit his eyes when he saw the red Mercedes.

Mikki stopped and rolled her window down. Traffic is killer. Sorry I'm so late.

Paul nodded a greeting, then said something to the security officer in the kiosk. He was still smiling when he reached the driver's side door with a manila folder in his hand.

So let's get to it, Mikki said. Who's the man, who's the girl, and why do you need my help with them?

Paul was silent for a moment. Mikki, how . . . ?

How what? You're the guy playing dial-a-psychic. Playing with Paul's head had always been fun, especially when they dated in college.

Paul squatted down to look into Mikki's face. You're still spooky. Let me drive to the parking area while you look at the file and I'll give you the low-down.

Mikki opened her door and stood up. She hugged him and then walked to the other side of the car. She turned to face him and opened the passenger side door noticing the flush that crept up into his cheeks. With a demure smile, she said, You have to stop staring and get into the car if you plan to get any place.

Paul shook his head as if to clear it. Sorry. Just admiring. Mikki tossed her head laughing, and got into the car. Paul sat in the driver's seat, pushed it back, and handed her the file. He looked good in his black pinstripe suit and brightly patterned tie, with a white shirt that complemented his dark mocha skin and black hair. Revving the engine, Paul eased the car into the underground lot.

Mikki smoothed her blouse and skirt with her palms. All right, I had a dream this week. I was in a room I didn't know and there was a man there with his back to me. I felt like he was good-looking, even though I couldn't see his face and he was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket with a glimmering spider web on the back. You opened the door and walked in with a young girl. I didn't know the girl either and I couldn't see her face. Even though it was a dream, she seemed a little odd because she had like a lizard, or a dragon--something like that--on a chain, sitting on her shoulder. You walked up to me and kissed me, which is how I knew we'd be talking; kissing usually represents communication in dreams, at least for me it does. I haven't figured out everything else though.

Have you heard about Shelly Barclay?

Sure, the girl that's been missing for the past week. It's been all over the news.

Yeah, that's her. We're holding a suspect in her kidnapping, but we don't have enough evidence to hold him much longer. In fact, what we do have isn't very solid. He's very aloof and has insisted he doesn't know anything about Shelly Barclay or where she is. I just have a gut feeling that he's involved somehow but we don't have much time left.

What evidence do you have?

Our witness saw this guy walking a huge dog outside the Barclay house the day Shelly disappeared. They said he stopped and stood for a long time just staring at Shelly's window.

That’s not a lot of evidence.

I know. But the weird part is, the guy doesn't live anywhere near their home.

Oh, well that makes a little more sense, but still . . ."

Which is why I thought of you--for a couple of reasons actually. I mentioned to the Case Agent that I might have a way to get something we can use. He's a little dubious about psychics, but he said that if we're going to do this, we need to get moving as quickly as possible. The Barclays make this case a little higher profile than most.

What exactly is it you want me to do?

Exactly do what you do--get spooky. Do you think you could maybe get a sense of this guy? Maybe find out where she is, or what he's done with her? You have no idea how even a hint would help. I know this is a little different than what I've asked you to do before and, oh, you won't be able to be in the same room with him but do you think you could try?

Paul knew about her little psychic secret--he found out about her ability in college, when they dated. When he went to work for the FBI he remembered what she could do and insisted on setting her up as an official FBI consultant. Since then she had been called in on a few cases, but generally they gave her something that she could hold and study--a personal item or trinket of the person in question. This time would be a lot different. Paul wanted her to try to read the guy, without being able to touch him, and he wanted her to do it fast. She'd never tried anything like this before.

Eighteen months earlier she had discovered the enormous untapped potential of her unique ability when she had sex with Ray Lee, her first real client. Since then, she watched for clients who held a passion for something in life beyond what she considered average, and gave them . . . special care. The results had been utterly spectacular.

Paul broke the silence. "Mikki, Shelly is a just a 14-year-old kid. Are you going to tell me you wouldn't at least try to help her if you could?"

Well, of course, she thought, but . . . how? Reading someone was always easiest when she could at least shake their hand, not being able to touch them was quite another. Paul, you know how this works: I do okay from across a room; better if I can touch them. Best if I have sex, but I don't think that's what he really wants. No guarantees if I can't have at least some kind of contact.

"No-no-no! No contact. That wouldn't be a good idea. Isn't there another way, you can, you know? Get something without touching and without him knowing?"

Mentally, she inventoried her body. Maybe there was a way she could get into this man's head without letting him into her pants. Maybe she could arouse the warm, tingly feelings and find her way into an unknowing and probably unwilling participant's psyche. It was worth a try.

Paul, you may be the luckiest man I've ever met. I think I know a way I can accommodate you. At least I'm willing to try.

Paul sighed in relief. If you do this, I'll owe you big time.

You better believe it. She opened the file. Clipped to a pile of official-looking forms was a photo, a candid shot of a man. The good-looking face held a serious expression, speaking of boredom and simmering frustration. He was perhaps twenty-five or so, light eyes and dark, medium length hair.

This is the guy you have the feeling about?

Yeah, that's him. The only official police record we can find on him is from two years back when some officious beat cop by the name of Morris decided that a musician standing on a street corner playing a guitar was 'disturbing the peace.' There were never any charges filed against him and the whole thing was dropped. He pulled into a parking spot near the elevator and shut the engine off. Paul clenched his jaw. Come on, we have him in the interrogation room on eight.

Paul took the file back from her and they walked to the elevator in silence. Mikki contemplated the photograph. This was not the face of a dangerous man. Maybe she was prejudiced, but there was something about him--he was just too good-looking. He might be somebody you'd have to shoot down in a bar after a lame pick-up line, but he'd just shrug and say something arrogant like, 'your loss, babe.'

Or maybe not. Who was that guy, geez, from before she was born, Ted somebody--he was attractive too, and he killed all those women. Maybe this guy was the same way.

Mikki realized Paul had started talking once they were on the elevator, but she hadn't been paying attention. He was handing her a visitor ID badge and still talking about his suspect. He acts like he's willing to help but says he has nothing to offer. He's real cool and collected. Nothing we've said, nothing we've done has flustered him. We've had him about eight hours and we're real close to the time we have to charge him, or let him go.

Flipping through the file as he spoke, he extracted another photograph. Remember I said there were a few reasons I wanted you in on this?

Actually you said 'several' but I figured my trying to get something from him was probably the most important. I thought one of the other reasons was to see me again. She winked and smiled.

He held the picture to Mikki. Here's the second reason.

Mikki took the photo and glanced at it. Very funny. Where did you get this, from my mother? Why do you have a picture of me when I was a teenager?

It isn't you. Paul smiled and raised an eyebrow. I had the same reaction. Take another look at it.

She stared, examining the image closely. "Wow. That's just eerie. She really does look like me, doesn't she? I mean, now that I look at her, really look at her, I can see the differences. Like, her eyes are darker, her hair is straighter and she has that little freckle or mole there on her jaw. But she does really look like me. Especially around the eyes, I