Nocturnal Serenade: Nocturnal Lives, #2

By Amanda S. Green

Lt. Mackenzie Santos of the Dallas Police Department discovers there are worse things than finding out you come from a long line of shapeshifters. At least that's what she keeps telling herself. It's not that she resents discovering she can turn into a jaguar. Nor is it really the fact that no one warned her of the possibility. Although, come to think of it, her mother does have a lot of explaining to do when—and if—Mac ever talks to her again. No, the real problem is how to keep the existence of shapeshifters hidden from the public, especially when just one piece of forensic evidence in the hands of the wrong technician could lead to their discovery.

 

Add in blackmail, a long overdue talk with her grandmother about their heritage and an attack on her mother and Mac's life is about to get a lot more complicated. What she wouldn't give for a run-of-the-mill murder to investigate. THAT would be a nice change of pace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Green
• Release date: Jun 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781949901115

Amanda S. Green

I’m older than twenty and younger than death and that’s all you’ll get from me about my age. After all, it’s not polite to ask a woman her age. I’m a mother, a daughter and was a wife. I’ve spent most of my life in the South and love to travel. The only problem with that is my dog always thinks I’ve abandoned him and it takes weeks to reassure the poor thing. Then there’s the cat who resents the fact I came back before he could figure out a way to kill the dog and hide the body. My house is haunted – it really is. I swear it. What else explains the table that plays music and the light that comes on by itself? – but it’s mine and I love it. Okay, I’m a little strange. But that makes life interesting.

Book preview

1

From the deepest shadows he watched, just as he had every night for a week. He didn't know why he watched. He didn't need to. That's what they'd told him. Of course, that didn't stop him from wondering. Knowledge was power and power usually translated into money, and there was nothing Stanley Middleton liked better than money.

His job was simple enough. All he had to do was watch the target and report what she did. If she left the house, he was to follow. That was all. So simple in the telling and yet so very difficult in the execution. Not that he'd ever tell Novacek that. Stanley might be many things, but foolish he wasn't. He'd proven that by staying alive as long as he had among the predators, especially where Novacek was concerned. Benjamin Novacek had the reputation of dealing, very painfully and permanently, with those who failed him, and Stanley had no intention of ever doing that. He liked living and there was absolutely no profit in death.

Stanley's determination not to fail had been reinforced by his last conversation with Novacek. Every other evening that week, Novacek had been calm, almost negligent, when he gave Stanley his instructions. Tonight had been different. Even though he tried to hide it, Stanley had seen flashes of excitement, barely contained, as Novacek told him to be especially careful not to lose the target that evening. So something had happened, or was going to happen. But what? And how could Stanley use it to his benefit?

Stanley leaned forward, never loosening his grip on the tree limb. He wished he could see more of the inside of the house, of the woman and what she was doing. Maybe then he'd be able to figure out why Novacek was so interested in her.

What he could do with that knowledge. . ..

None of which helped him just then. He'd best keep his mind on the task or there would be hell to pay.

Frustrated, Stanley turned his attention back to the house. The target lived in a relatively new McMansion in one of the thrice–damned gated communities that seemed to have sprung up virtually overnight across the country. The guards at the neighborhood entrance wouldn't let him pass without authorization – something he most certainly didn't have and couldn't get. Even if he somehow managed to bluff his way past the guardhouse, he'd still be out of luck. There was no way he'd be allowed to sit in his car and watch the target's house hour after hour. If the neighborhood rent-a-cops didn't roust him, the real cops would.

That had forced him to look at other options. The first was to try to take up residence in one of the neighboring homes. The problem with that was finding one where the occupants were out of town. Then he'd have to bypass their security system and pray no one came by to check on the house, water the plants, what-have-you.

The other option, the one he favored, was to simply find a way into the neighborhood and set up surveillance cameras focused on the target's house. It would have been simple enough to do. Forged work orders, the right bribes to borrow a work truck and he'd be home free. Once the cameras were set up, he could see about a few well–placed transmitters inside the house. Then he'd be all set and all it would require would be a couple of hours of uninterrupted work.

Unfortunately, Novacek had quickly put an end to those plans. He didn't want to risk losing the target because a camera failed or a bug was discovered. The only thing that would do was for Stanley to personally keep an eye on her during the evening hours. So, no cameras. No bugs in her house. Nothing that would make the job one bit easier to accomplish.

Bastard.

Stanley knew he could scale the stone walls surrounding the neighborhood and sneak in that way. But that was risky, too risky. The homeowners' association, ever vigilant and ever aware of ways to keep their insurance premiums to a minimum, had mounted security cameras strategically along the perimeter. If the guards didn't immediately descend upon him, it would be his bad luck to have some nosy neighbor spot him and call the police.

So, he took the only option left to him. Each night, after the target pulled into the neighborhood, he drove past, finding a side street several blocks away to park. Then he trekked through the trees separating the houses from the neighboring golf course. Now he perched in an oak tree just beyond the brick wall behind the target's house. Ten feet above the ground, his legs wrapped tightly around a thick limb, his back firmly pressed against the tree trunk, Staley did his best to become one with the tree. The rough bark bit painfully into his back and legs, but he didn't dare move. Moving was bad, very bad. Moving meant a change of balance, of possibly falling. So he sat as still as possible, praying the wind didn't suddenly decide to pluck him from the limb and toss him to the ground. And he watched and waited, fervently hoping tonight turned out to be just as uneventful as the previous nights had been.

God, don't let him fall. He wasn't some damned cat that would land on his feet.

Trying to forget how precarious his perch happened to be, Stanley once more turned his attention to the house. A single light shone from the second-floor window he'd quickly decided was her home office. For the last two hours she'd been there, presumably working. Perhaps she was preparing a case for trial. Novacek had said she was an attorney, so that would make sense. Still, whatever she was working on was important enough, or compelling enough, to alter the schedule she'd kept other nights. Those nights, she'd gone to bed by midnight.

But not tonight.

What was so interesting and was this why Novacek had been so insistent he report back everything, no matter how unimportant it seemed?

Stanley chewed his lower lip and watched as she once more climbed to her feet and moved to stare out the window. For a moment, he froze, sure she could see him. But that was foolish. He was well hidden and there was no way she could know he was there. No, whatever she was looking at, it wasn't him.

He hoped.

At least with her awake, he had something to focus on besides how cold his feet were and how badly he hated hiding in the tree.

As afraid as he was of Novacek, Stanley was even more afraid of being discovered by the police. He had no doubt what their response would be. They would accuse him of being a stalker. After all, he was hiding in a tree in the middle of the night, watching the home of a divorced woman without her knowledge. The only reasonable explanation would that he was stalking her. The only reasonable response would be to throw him in jail.

Even that, however, wasn't the worst possibility he faced if discovered. This was Texas after all. One of her neighbors might just decide to take matters into their own hands and shoot first, ask questions later – assuming he was able to answer any questions once the neighbor finished emptying his gun. And Stanley knew Texans not only had guns, but they had big guns.

A shudder ran through him, and his balance shifted. As his stomach pitched, Stanley grabbed convulsively for the branch he sat upon. His breath exploded and fear raced through him. For one moment, he teetered on the brink of falling. Then he slammed his chest forward against the branch and held on for dear life. Nothing, absolutely nothing could pry him loose now.

God, he hated this assignment. Too much could go wrong, too much he could and would be blamed for. Worse, he wasn't being paid enough for this misery. But that could change. Oh yes, it could change very quickly. All he had to do was play his cards right. He just had to find out what he could about the target and why she was so important to Novacek. Information, that's all and he knew just how to find it.

2

Flashing lights from half a dozen emergency vehicles greeted her as she rounded the corner. A marked police unit blocked the road ahead. Two officers huddled inside yellow slickers as rain beat down on them. She didn't need to see their expressions to know they'd much prefer being warm and dry inside their squad car. Even so, they stood their post, making sure the curious didn't get too close to the crime scene.

That was important, especially since the media had already descended upon the scene. Not that it surprised her. Murder in suburbia, even if this middle–class neighborhood was technically inside the Dallas city limits, made for great press, especially if the media found some way to add controversy to the story. It was up to her and her team to make sure that didn't happen.

Lightning streaked across the early morning sky as she parked two houses down from the crime scene. A rolling crash of thunder followed almost immediately. The reporters and curious neighbors shuffled around behind the barricades, casting disgusted looks skyward. They might be cold and wet, but their morbid curiosity overrode their physical discomfort.

For a moment, the clouds parted and the moon peeked through. As it did, Lt. Mackenzie Santos swallowed hard. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel, and she closed her eyes. In just a few days, it would be the full moon. She could feel it pulling at her and fought its call. It would be so easy to give in, to let go. But she couldn't. Not now and especially not here.

As quickly as the clouds parted, they joined again, and she blew out a breath. Good. She needed to focus on why she'd been called out, not on maintaining control. Now, to run the media gauntlet and get to work.

Mac ignored the questions shouted at her just as she ignored the rain beating down on her. Long legs carried her down the street in quick, confident strides. She flashed her badge to the young cop in her path before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape. Then press would have to wait until she figured out what was going on for a statement and, if she had her way, then all she'd tell them was to check with the department's media liaison officer. She was damned if she'd feed the vultures unless she absolutely had to.

Lieutenant.

Burke, what have we got? she asked the uniformed officer who met her just inside the house.

My partner and I responded to a welfare check call. On our check of the perimeter, we saw the body through the back window. It was obvious he'd been dead for a while so we secured the scene and called it in. Your partner's back there now.

Mac nodded and looked around the front room, what she assumed was the den. Comfortable furnishings, a bit worn but still showing good workmanship and quality. Pictures and photos in various sizes and types of frames graced tabletops and hung on walls. This was a home where family was important. So what had happened?

Anything else you can tell me?

Not much, ma'am. The registered owners, a George and Faye Hemmings, are spending the month in Florida and their son, Jason Hemmings, is supposed to be housesitting. The neighbors called in the welfare check when they hadn't seen him in several days and realized the papers had been piling up in the front yard.

All right. As soon as the ME gets here, send him in. Have Crime Scene start processing out here. I'll send for them when I'm ready for them to deal with the rest of the house.

Mac took one more look around the room before motioning for Burke to take her to the body. Whether the body in the back room was the homeowners' son or not, the house would never be the home it had been. That sense of safety, of being a haven from the rest of the world had been shattered just, she feared, as the family would soon be shattered.

Damn.

Mac paused just inside a small bedroom. As she did, she swallowed convulsively. The fingers of her right hand absently closed about the small jar of Vicks in her pocket and she dabbed some inside her nose. The burning of the menthol was a small enough price to pay to mask the odors of filth and decomposition, odors she'd give almost anything to never small again. But she knew that wasn't going to happen. More than ten years with the Dallas Police Department, the last three and a half as a homicide detective, had taught her that.

For several long moments, Mac stood still, her green eyes taking in every detail of the room. The unmistakable smell of death permeated the air. Mingling with it was the sickening odor of burnt flesh and, beneath that, the faint odor of marijuana. Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't this.

Shadows hung heavily in the room. Dark drapes covered the windows, and the only light came from overhead. A lamp that had been on the bedside table lay on the floor, its bulb smashed. Next to it rested a small clock, its display dark, the cord ripped from the wall. If it weren't for the body in the middle of the room, Mac would be tempted to say someone really hadn't wanted to get up that morning.

For now, however, the investigation centered on the body of the young man slumped against the ropes binding him to a wooden chair Mac assumed had come from the dining room. Who was he and what had he been – the son who was supposed to be house–sitting or someone else?

Or was he something else, something that would make the investigation into his death much more complicated than she'd first anticipated?

What have you got?

The blonde detective kneeling carefully next to the victim looked over her shoulder at the sound of Mac's voice. Her blue eyes and closed expression betrayed an anger Mac recognized and understood. Her partner was no more desensitized to death, especially senseless death, than was she and her anger spoke volumes just then. Something about the scene, or the victim, hit home with Sergeant Patricia Collins and the possible explanations worried Mac.

Sorry to call you out, LT, but this one just doesn't feel right. Pat climbed to her feet and carefully crossed the bedroom to where Mac stood. As she did, she peeled off the protective gloves she'd been wearing, turning them inside out and tossing them into the sack by the door to be collected by the crime scene techs later.

Run it for me, Pat.

All right. At 0500, 911 received the request for a welfare check. A patrol was dispatched to investigate. After viewing the body through the window – the drapes were open. I pulled them to keep the media and neighbors from gawking inside – they secured the scene and called it in. I received the call at 0530 and responded. The officers on scene had set up a perimeter by the time I arrived. I did a quick walk–through before checking the victim. Preliminary observations showed the victim as you see him. There are signs of a fight. In my opinion, the drug paraphernalia, as well as the syringe in the arm, make it look like a drug deal went bad or perhaps this was payback for a double–cross of some sort.

But? Mac prompted. Pat wouldn't have called her out if it were that simple.

I don't think that's the case. A closer look at the victim shows he was not just beaten. He was tortured. This wasn't a drug deal gone wrong. At least not a buy gone wrong. Pat paused and chewed her lower lip, a sure sign she was thinking hard. I'd like you to have a look and see if you agree.

All right.

Mac drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then exhaled slowly. While she appreciated the fact Pat wasn't jumping to conclusions, a touch of frustration crept in. her partner needed to start trusting her own instincts. After almost two months with the squad – and almost as much time on the force as Mac – Pat shouldn't be second–guessing herself. And the only way for her to stop doing so was to handle an investigation without Mac there to coach her at each step along the way.

Suddenly, another possible explanation for Pat's request dawned on her and Mac paled. Her heart seemed to skip a beat and her breath caught. No, it couldn't be. Not again. Pat would have found some way to warn her.

Wouldn't she?

Of course she would. If one of their people had been involved, pat would have made sure Mac knew. She wouldn't play some sort of guessing game with her partner, her fellow pride member. There was too much at stake to risk an outsider figuring out what they were, especially after all that had happened over the last few months.

Pushing down the quick flair of panic that started in the pit of her stomach and threatened to erupt in a cry of distress, Mac once more turned her attention to the scene before her. As she did, she dug deep inside, calling on her jaguar. Almost instantly, she felt her cat there, just below the surface. The closeness of the full moon combined with the smells of death and the sight of the body called to the jaguar always lurking beneath the surface. Mac quickly reinforced her control. She couldn't risk shifting, but she wanted the added sensitivity the jaguar gave her. Even so, she couldn't stop the growl deep in her throat, a growl that had Pat looking at her in concern.

A quick sniff, then a second and Mac relaxed a little. All the expected smells of death were there. Blood, other bodily fluids best left unsaid. Acrid perspiration. Burnt flesh. The stale smell of smoking, both of legal tobacco and illegal pot. All expected based on what she'd seen so far. More importantly, nothing to indicate another shifter had been involved.

Thank God.

Relieved, Mac moved forward, carefully watching where each step went. The last thing she wanted – or needed – was to contaminate or destroy any evidence that might help them close the case. A moment later, she knelt in almost the exact place Pat had earlier. Without touching the body, she carefully examined it, quickly understanding why her partner had sent for her.

Do we have an ID?

No. I haven't checked his pockets yet. I didn't want to move him before you had a chance to see the scene undisturbed. However, he does match the general description the neighbors gave of the homeowners' son.

Mac nodded and continued her examination. If she had to guess, she'd say the victim was around twenty. Dressed in only a pair of boxers, it was easy to see how much he'd been forced to endure before he died. His chestnut-colored hair appeared to have been recently barbered. An expensive watch was still in place on his left wrist. Obviously, robbery wasn't the motive behind his murder. If it had been, the watch, the laptop on the desk under the window and a number of other easily portable and pawnable items would have been taken.

Mac had seen enough of the rest of the house when she arrived to guess the other room had been undisturbed. So the victim hadn't been dead for long. Certainly not more than a day or so, no matter how many papers had been allowed to pile up on the front porch. Good neighborhood or not, scavengers were always around and they rarely, if ever, turned away from an easy mark.

And there was no easier mark than a dead man.

She pulled on a pair of gloves and reached out to carefully tip the young man's head up some. The sight of his face, bruised and bloodied beyond recognition, had her closing her eyes and offering up a quick prayer that he had passed out before most of the damage had been inflicted. Someone had used their fists and a knife, or some other sharp implement, to inflict the most damage possible. How the neighbors hadn't heard him screaming in pain was beyond her.

Did you see any indication he'd been gagged?

Yeah. Pat's voice was flat, matching her partner's mood. There's a wad of cloth over here. Looks like it might have been part of a t–shirt. From the looks of it, he not only bled on it but vomited as well.

Poor bastard.

With that, Mac continued her examination. The fingers of the victim's right hand looked as if they'd been broken. More blood streaked his chest and abdomen. Whether it was from the injuries to his face or from injuries to his torso, she couldn't tell for sure. She'd have to wait on the ME for that. But she did recognize the small, circular burns that marred his neck. More were visible on his arms and lower abdomen, even his feet. Someone had done a job on him and hadn't stopped there.

Wrapped about his left bicep and then loosened slightly was a thin black belt. A syringe hung precariously from the inside of that elbow, a small drop of blood pooled around the needle. Since she saw no other indication he was a user, Mac wondered what he'd been given and why. Most of all, she wanted to know by whom.

You made a good call here, Pat. Someone either wanted this guy to suffer or wanted something from him and he didn't cooperate. She climbed to her feet and pulled off her gloves, tossing them into the same sack Pat had tossed hers into a few minutes earlier. Let the forensic guys and the ME in. I want the entire house processed, inside and out. This might be nothing more than payback for a drug deal gone wrong, but I don't think so.

Understood, Mac.

I'll send Sears and Nguyen out to assist. Keep the unis as well to help with the door–to–door. I'll tag the 911 tape and pull up the call history for the area, this address in particular. Report in as soon as you finish here.

For a moment, Pat simply stood there, her expression blank. Then she stared at Mac in disbelief. Clearly, she'd expected her partner to remain on the scene, possibly even take charge of the investigation. Well, it was time Pat learned she didn't need her partner with her all the time. She was a good cop, a damned good cop. If she weren't she'd never have lasted as long in Narcotics as she had. But now she needed to gain the same confidence in Homicide that she'd had as an undercover cop and Mac was determined to help her get it – whether Pat liked it or not.

Will do.

Pat paused and Mac could see the questions reflected in her partner's eyes, questions Pat fought to keep from asking. Understanding, remembering the first time she'd been given the lead on a homicide investigation, Mac relented a little and motioned for Pat to come with her before turning and quickly making her way outside.

All right, Pat, just say it, she instructed her partner once they were safely inside Mac's Mustang and away from gawking neighbors and reporters demanding to know what was going on.

Mac, have you lost your mind? Pat swiveled in her seat so she faced Mac and there was no mistaking her disbelief or her concern – or the slight trace of fear – that touched her voice.

Not at all. Now Mac grinned even as she slid the key into the ignition and started the engine. "Pat, you've run undercover ops that would turn my blood cold. You know what to do and you shouldn't be second–guessing yourself. So run the on–site investigation. I'm as close as the phone if you need me.

More importantly, you're the second ranking officer in the squad. I know you haven't had much experience in Homicide, but you have to get your feet wet sometime. You have to if you want to keep the respect of the rest of the squad. This case looks as if there might be a drug tie–in, which means you have more contacts and more of an idea of who to talk to than I do, at least until we rule out the drug angle. Besides, after the Wilcox case, just about anything should be a cakewalk for you.

Mac waited, giving her partner time to digest what she'd said. As she did, she checked her watch and grimaced slightly. In less than an hour she was due at the Chief's weekly briefing. She'd be expected to report on the current caseload of her squad as well as explain why there were still outstanding cases. Not that anyone actually expected the squad to close each and every case that came in. Dallas was too big, the crime rate too high and there were too many unidentified victims for that to ever happen. Even so, the pressure was still there to explain why cases weren't moving any quicker than they were.

Face facts, Mac. You're just as uncomfortable with your new role as squad commander as Pat is with hers as a homicide detective. Politics has never been your strong suit.

For a moment, the blonde said nothing. Then she nodded once, emphatically, before reaching for the door handle.

Okay. I just hope you're right.

I am. I do have one suggestion. Once Crime Scene finishes and the ME is ready to take the body, check the vic for anything he might have on him that not only would identify him but might also explain what happened. Have them take special care in bagging his hands as well. I don't want to lose any forensic evidence that might be on them. And let me know if you find anything that jumps out at you.

Will do. Pat climbed out of the car. She straightened and looked up and then down the street, shaking her head as she did. Then she ducked back inside, her expression thoughtful. Mac, this part of Lakewood isn't where you'd expect to find a drug deal gone wrong. I haven't been gone from Narcotics that long and I don't remember any problems here. So, unless you have some objection, I'm going to tag Malloy to see if he might know anything that might shed light on what happened here.

Good idea. She glanced at her watch and sighed. I've got to run, Pat. I have the Chief's weekly briefing in less than an hour.

Then I certainly don't want to keep you. A very wicked smile touched Pat's lips and Mac chuckled humorlessly in response. I know how much you love that part of the job.

Just for that, I'm going to leave you to it.

A moment later, with Pat striding across the front yard toward the house, Mac pulled away from the curb and sped off. As she did, she frowned. She'd much rather stay on the scene and work the case. But she couldn't. With the promotion to lieutenant came the added responsibilities of squad commander. That meant she had to make her appearance at the Chief's weekly briefings – whether she liked it or not.

Maybe she'd get lucky and something would break with this case or one of the others her squad was working, requiring her to leave the briefing before the Chief got to her.

With that happy thought in mind, Mac contacted Dispatch to let them know she was on her way to the Justice Center.

Pat watched as the Mustang pulled away from the curb and frowned. Gone was the rush she always felt at the beginning of an investigation. Forgotten was her anger at what might be yet another senseless drug–related death. Instead, she felt surprised and more than a little concerned to be suddenly, and unexpectedly, thrust into the role of lead investigator.

Had Mac lost her mind?

For one brief moment, anger and resentment with her partner flared and, with it, her cougar stirred restlessly just beneath the surface of her control. It pressed for release, responding not only to Pat's turmoil but also to the smell of a fresh kill. The nearness of the full moon didn't help any either. Horrified by how fragile her control was, Pat quickly, ruthlessly bore down on her emotions. She had to find her center, to concentrate on the job.

Damn it, she knew better than to let her emotions get the better of her. It was hard not to, just then. Mac had surprised her by putting her in charge of the investigation. More surprising had been what she'd found just before Mac's arrival, that one piece of evidence she hadn't told her partner about.

As her cougar reluctantly retreated, Pat forced herself to consider what Mac had said. Like it or not, Mac was right. She did need to step up and take the lead before the squad began questioning her ability to function as a homicide cop. To do that, she needed to keep an open mind about who – and what – might be responsible for the young man's death. But how was she supposed to do that when she'd found Elizabeth Santos Wheeler's – Mac's mother – business card stuffed in the dead man's mouth?

Damn it all to Hell and back again, how was she supposed to tell Mac that?

Steeling herself, Pat once more entered the house, determined to do everything she could to discover what had led up to the horrible death the poor bastard had fallen victim to.

For the next half hour she worked, photographing the scene, and making notes. The uniformed officers kept the press at bay, even as they began the initial interviews of the neighbors. This really wasn't all that different from running an investigation in Narcotics. All she had to do was follow her instincts and keep her goal in mind.

Keep telling yourself that, Pat, and you might just start believing it.

Hear you could use an extra pair or two of hands, Sergeant, Detective Jennifer Sears commented from the doorway.

Pat quickly settled her expression into what she hoped showed only confidence. If she could finally win over Sears, convince the brunette that she belonged in the squad, she'd clear a major hurdle. But it was a very high hurdle, one that wouldn't be easily cleared.

At least Pat recognized the source of the problem. Sears and Mac had attended the Academy together and had, over the years, become close friends. From Sears' point of view, that friendship had to be jeopardized by Pat. Not only was she Mac's new partner, spending any number of hours with her each day as they performed their duties, but she and Mac seemed to be developing a friendship as close, if not closer, than the one Sears enjoyed with the lieutenant. And it was abundantly clear the brunette didn't understand why the two had become so close so quickly.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way Mac or Pat could – or would –– explain it to her.

Dear God, she'd think we've both lost our minds. Of course, it would be fun, in a perverse sort of way, to show her.

Stifling the laughter that bubbled up at the thought, Pat turned and nodded to Sears and her partner, the newest addition to the squad. Detective Timothy Nguyen stood next to his partner, his dark eyes darting around the room as he took in every detail. Then, with a nod to Pat, he dug into the left pocket of his rumpled jacket. A moment later, he withdrew a stick of gum. He peeled away the wrapper and folded the gum into his mouth, smiling as he did.

What have we got here, Sarge? he wanted to know.

Male vic, beaten and worse, and then shot up with something. Preliminary investigation rules out burglary. We may have a drug deal of some sort gone wrong. It's possible the vic stiffed his supplier who came looking for payment. But the vic's injuries seem more of the type to extract information. Cause the most pain without causing unconsciousness. However, because of the drugs and paraphernalia in the room, until we find something telling us there's another motive, we have to look at the drug tie–in. Pat held up her right hand, signaling for the crime scene technicians who'd just arrived to wait outside the room a bit longer. "However, that doesn't mean we overlook or disregard any lead.

While I finish up in here and then get Crime Scene started, I'd like the two of you to check with the unis. See what they've learned from the neighbors. Then continue with the interviews. You know the drill. What I'm particularly interested in is finding out if anything unusual has happened here in the several weeks, especially if anything has happened since the homeowners left town. Let me know if anything stands out.

She paused, thinking hard, and then nodded decisively. Nguyen, when you get back to the squad, run a check on Nathan Kramer. Right now, that's the prelim ID on the vic.

Will do, Sarge.

Thanks. Sears, walk with me.

Sears opened her mouth and then closed it before nodding. As she did, Pat said a silent prayer of thanks that the woman hadn't decided to ask the questions that had to be racing through her head. Instead, Sears simply followed her out of the room and away from prying ears.

So, what's up? Sears asked as they settled at the kitchen table.

Pat wasn't surprised by the slight note of censure in the woman's voice. To say they weren't the best of friends was putting it mildly.

"This is what's up." Pat pulled the business card, safely tucked inside a clear evidence bag, from her pocket and slid it across the table.

Sears stared at the card for a moment, clearly at as much of a loss as Pat. Then she cursed long and hard. Good. At least she was as thrown by this development as was Pat.

Dear God, Sarge. Where did you find this? Sears lightly tapped her right index finger on the evidence bag.

Stuffed in the vic's mouth.

Shit. Sears paused and looked over her shoulder. Pat followed her gaze, relieved no one was near enough to overhear. Mac?

I found it just before she got here and, before you ask, I haven't told her yet. Hell, Jenny, I don't want to tell her.

Got to agree with you there – Sears paused for a moment. –Pat.

Unfortunately, we aren't going to be able to keep this under wraps for long.

God. Sears leaned back and shook her head. "I really, really wish you hadn't told me."

Now you know how I felt when I found this. Despite it all, Pat smiled slightly. Bad