Balancing the ungraded Scantron sheets, test booklets, and the skull the kids had dubbed, Waldo, against his left side, Sam unlocked his university office door. He set Waldo on the clutter free desk, careful not to bump into either George or Georgiana, his two hanging skeletons that resided against the right hand wall. Tired from an afternoon of watching his students take their forensic anthropology final, he dropped down onto the worn, high backed chair, ready to begin grading.

The sterile office was devoid of photos or any personal effects for a good reason. He didn’t need a reminder of his wife’s death or how he’d fucked up his life. His dad’s suicide still pissed him off, and while he loved his mom, she was often too drunk to remember his name. All the more reason for no pictures. Chance’s arrival had brought back more than college memories, and not many of them were good.

Just forget.

The longer he procrastinated grading, the shorter his winter break would be and the more time he’d be wasting when he could be investigating the identity of the yacht man.

As he sorted the essays from the multiple-choice section his phone rang. Sam glanced at the screen and groaned. It was his mom. She probably wanted more money to feed her habit, money he didn’t have, especially after buying the much-in-need-of-repair duplex. “Hello, Mom.” He kept his tone upbeat.

“Sammy, you haven’t called me in a while.” Same refrain, same whine. At least she sounded sober.

He’d called last week to tell her he’d mailed her a check to help her through December. Too bad she’d been drunk and obviously forgot the conversation. “Sorry, how are you?”

Guilt ripped through him. He wanted to find some real help for her, but a rehab center was out of his budget, and she wouldn’t qualify for Medicaid for four more years. Though in all honesty, what she needed was for his father to resurrect from the dead.

“Okay, I guess, but I miss hearing your voice.” His mom coughed, a dry cigarette laden hack. “I wanted to see how my favorite son was doing.”

He knew she wasn’t referring to the criminal son who was locked away for armed robbery. “Great. I’m in the process of grading the semester exams as we speak.” He didn’t want to spend an hour on the phone, but if their conversation made her feel better, he’d stay on as long as she needed. His mom seemed to receive a lot of comfort from their weekly chats.

“That’s wonderful.”

Not really. A knock sounded on his door and his department chair poked in his head. “Hey, Mom, can I call you back? My boss needs to talk to me.”

“Sure, Sammy.”

“Talk soon.”

He disconnected and pushed away the grief that grabbed him every time he spoke with her.

“Can I have a word with you, Dr. Bonita?” Rolf Hoffman tugged on his bowtie before smoothing the five gray hairs on his head.

Rolf never called him Dr. Bonita unless the conversation was serious. Sam didn’t need this. “Sure, Rolf, come in.” Sam refused to address him as Dr. Hoffman. He knew what his egotistical boss wanted.

Sam motioned to the one chair in the closet-sized office before straightening the stack of tests on his desk. He dropped his hands on his lap to give Rolf his undivided attention. “What’s up?”

Rolf sat straight-backed in the chair. “You know the tenure committee will be meeting in March.”

“Of course.” Not a day had passed that he hadn’t been aware of the impending deadline.

“I understand Tammy and you had a study going, but since I never saw the report before she left, you’ll have to come up with something soon or there’s no way the committee can grant you tenure.”

Sam flinched at the pointed comment. The thought of opening up Tammy’s betrayal would be like rolling in a swarming anthill. She’d published the work as her own like the good little backstabber she was. “I’ll have something to you soon.” Or so he hoped.

Rolf’s eye’s widened. “You’re working on a paper?”

The man didn’t have to sound so surprised. “No, I’m developing a handheld device that will enable scientists to scan a person’s remains and tell the age of the skeleton.”

“That’s excellent, but I understand the last two patents you received took you years.” Rolf’s brows pinched.

“True.”

“You haven’t been doing any other research? I thought you were consulting on a project for York University in England.”

“I was invited to work on the forty-four bodies they’d unearthed, but I had to cancel my trip. I had a family emergency.” Mom had fallen after being drunk. Her broken hip required him to fly up to Ohio to see to her care.

He guessed it didn’t matter that he’d already published ten articles before he came to work here, won numerous awards for his contributions to forensic anthropology, or had been given a commendation from Stanford for his work in the field.

Rolf stood, looking uncomfortable. “Well, good luck on your new invention.” He swiped a hand across his jacketed arms as if he’d gotten dirty while in Sam’s office. “I know how much the students like you as a professor. We’d hate to lose you. Give me a draft of your findings as soon as you can. And Merry Christmas.”

Sam swallowed. “You too.”

As if Rolf could walk through walls, the man disappeared down the empty corridor, his steps making no noise. Sam leaned back in his chair and refused to let the claw of despair get to him. He would get tenure. He had to if he planned to pay back his loans in the next century. HOPEFAL paid well for the time he was able to work there, but it wasn’t enough.

Sam patted Waldo on the head, took a deep breath, and began the tedious chore of seeing how much his students didn’t know about the human body. He was on his first essay when his cell rang again.

Christ. Sam dropped his pen. It clanked on the wooden desk and rolled to the floor. He’d never get these papers graded if the interruptions didn’t stop. He grabbed his cell without looking at the display. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Doc, it’s Phil.”

Sam’s muscles relaxed. “What’s up?”

“Do you have a moment to stop by the lab?”

“Sure.” He checked the small alarm clock on his desk. The time had sped by. “I have to run over to my duplex first. I’m renting the other half to an elderly lady, and she’s wheelchair bound and is all alone. I shop for her once a week.”

“Good for you. I’ll be here for a few more hours. Stop by anytime.”

Sam packed his papers and straightened his desk before locking his door. At the store, he purchased the few items Mrs. Delansky had requested. Since she basically asked for the same items every week, her list was easy to remember. He tried to add some variety to her diet by sneaking in some fresh vegetables or an extra helping of fruit with every purchase. Nutrition was so important at her age.

In less than thirty minutes, he arrived at her side of the duplex. He knocked, even though she always left the door unlocked at one p.m. every Thursday. He went in. “Hey, Mrs. Delansky.”

She wheeled over to him. “Hi, Sam. Just leave everything on the table. I’ll put it away. I know you’re busy.”

She had a hard time moving around the kitchen so Sam stashed the frozen food, milk, and eggs in her pint-sized refrigerator. “How are you feeling today?” She’d been suffering from gout and a bad cold for the last week.

“I still have a little cough, but otherwise I’m doing fine.” She moved over to her desk. “Here’s the rent check. It’s still two hundred, right?”

He didn’t know why she asked since he never changed the price. “Sure is.” He could have charged some college student five hundred, but she reminded him of his grandmother, and Mrs. Delansky’s only source of income came from social security. “Listen, I hate to drop these off and run, but my boss at the lab wants to talk to me about something.”

“Go. Go. I appreciate all you do for me.”

He gave her hug and hurried off. He was at the lab in less than an hour after Phil’s call. With a quick greeting to the guard on duty, Sam took the elevator to Phil’s office on the third floor. When he knocked and entered, Gina, his assistant, was hovered over his boss like a mother hen. She looked up and smiled. “Hey, Sam.” She tapped Phil on the shoulder. “I’ll get that report you want.” In a flash, she was gone.

Phil leaned back in his chair. “I’ll get right to the point. I’d like you to consider working here full time.”

Stunned, Sam let the success wash over him. “I thought you said you didn’t have enough work for me to be full-time. You admitted that bones weren’t discovered on a regular basis.”

“Times are a changin’.”

He couldn’t believe his good luck. “Where do I sign?”

Phil held up a hand. “Take you time to think about the offer first. I know you like to teach, so I thought maybe we can set you up as a mentor to one of our new recruits.”

“Sounds great. I’ll let you know for sure tomorrow.” Though he didn’t need any time to decide.

“Then get going. And find who that yacht man is.”

Sam nearly skipped down the hallway and slipped to his lab. The gurney with the headless man had been resting over the lip of the sink to allow any remaining fluids to fully drain from his body. He ignored the rancid smell and gowned up. After he dragged the sink’s sprayer over the corpse, he turned the temperature to hot in order to melt the waxy covering off the body. While the remaining soft tissue had turned dark from putrification, what looked like a once colorful tattoo on the man’s hip materialized.

Taking a hint from his predecessor and fellow Braham University professor, Kerry Markum, he dabbed a mixture of bleach and water on the skin’s surface to bring out the tattoo. After he rubbed the skin in a series of slow circles, an anchor appeared, and his pulse quickened. This tattoo might provide a means to identification.

He grabbed his digital camera and snapped a picture. Needing a hard copy for identification purposes and for the police report, he plugged the camera into the computer. A minute later, he had what he hoped would be his corroborative proof of the man’s identification.

Once he finished washing the body, he began the tedious chore of scrapping the skin off the yacht man’s bones, careful not to leave any damaging marks. Two hours later, he carried the pile of bones over to the maceration station and placed them in the simmering water. He added a little Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer and bit of Biz Laundry detergent to quicken the cleaning process, and immediately shut the clear hood to prevent the stench from knocking him out.

His sense of smell had deteriorated over the years, but simmering human meat still eroded his nasal passages and set off the gag reflex. Unless this man was one tough cookie, the cleaning process would take about two days on low. In the mean time, he wanted to collect some information from Creighton Jackson, the owner of the yacht.

Sam stuffed his outer coveralls, gloves and footies in the biohazard trash and washed his hands. Praying he didn’t smell too bad from the dead man’s vapors, he headed to Davis Island in the midst of rush hour traffic. Phil informed him that a Detective Giombetti was in charge of the murder investigation, but sometimes a non-uniformed officer was able to extract more information from a civilian than a cop.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic gave him time to think through Phil’s offer. Sam’s mother had wrapped her pride in the idea that the good son was a professor. Why she didn’t think researcher held the same esteem, he didn’t know.

Forty minutes after he left, Sam pulled up to Creighton Jackson’s townhouse, the back of which faced Sedan Channel. It had an impressive view and was way out-of-his-league expensive. The report said Jackson was on vacation during December, but perhaps news of the murder had reached him, and he’d flown home early.

If the dead man in his lab was the owner, the neighbors might be able to describe Creighton, or better yet, provide him with a photo. Not that he had a face to match it to, but the man’s coloring and size would help establish if the body might belong to him.

It took him three tries to find a neighbor at home. The woman who answered his knock was slightly out of breath. She was in her late twenties and wore Spandex mid-calf pants and a low-cut top. Her not so neat blonde ponytail together with the slight sweat on her forehead implied he’d interrupted her workout. He flashed his HOPEFAL badge, hoping the woman wouldn’t scrutinize his ID too carefully. To most, a badge meant authority.

She dabbed a fluffy white towel down her chest, her long red nails extended, acting as if she didn’t want to mess them up. “The police have already been here.” His ploy seemed to have worked, or she didn’t care who he was.

“I know, ma’am, but I wanted to see if you could give me a description of Creighton Jackson.”

She looked at him for a moment before motioning him inside. Her immaculate, upscale house looked professionally decorated, almost as perfectly put together as she was.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” Her smile was suggestive, as if the wedding ring on her hand didn’t matter much.

“No, thanks. This isn’t a social call.”

“Oh, too bad. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Dr. Sam Bonita.”

“A doctor? Ooooh.” She closed the gap between them and held out her hand. “I’m Sheila Gradkowski.”

Leaving entered his mind, but he needed the information. “Mrs. Gradkowski. Creighton Jackson. What did he look like?”

“Creighton?” She sucked in a big breath and clasped a hand over her mouth. “I heard they found a dead guy on his boat. It wasn’t Creighton was it?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am. That’s why I’m here.”

“Dear God.” She glanced up to the left, and then back at Sam. “Let me see. He was nice looking, but he could stand to lose a little weight around the middle.” She pointed a finger at his midsection. “He wasn’t fit like you.”

Sam held his frustration in check. “What else?”

“Well, he had sandy blond hair, fair skin, and lots of freckles.” She waved a hand. “I kept warning him about being in the sun without sunscreen, but did he listen? No.” A slow smile materialized on her face as she studied Sam from head to toe like a snake to its prey.

“How old would you say he was?” he asked.

“Old. Mid fifties. I only know because he was counting the days until Social Security, not that he needed the money. The guy was loaded, but there was something about free money that appealed to him.”

“Do you know if he went to University of Florida?”

“Oh, my yes. He was a mega Gator fan. He and my husband both graduated from there, though Creighton graduated eons before Jeff.” Her face looked horrified, as if Sam would think she’d married someone other than a young, handsome stud.

“Can you tell me how tall he was?”

She tapped her pink manicured finger on her bottom lip. “Maybe two or three inches shorter than you.”

Estimating the man’s height from the length of his torso put Sam’s guess at five eleven. His gut churned. Creighton Jackson would never return his call. “Did he have any distinguishing marks on his body?” He wanted to see if she knew about the tattoo on the victim’s hip before showing her the photo.

Her cheeriness disappeared. “How would I know? I never slept with him if that’s what you’re implying. That would be Deidra Willow’s job.”

“Where can I find this Deidra?” He hoped this new woman would be a safe topic.

Sheila calmed down somewhat. “She runs Botanica in Ybor. It’s on 22^nd Avenue.”

He entered the information in his cell phone. “One last question. Did Creighton have any relatives in town?”

A loud engine rumbled up her driveway. Sheila raced to the front window, peered out and let out a gasp. “Crapola. It’s my husband. You have to get out of here.” She acted as if her husband would beat her if he found another man in the house.

“No problem.”

Sam was halfway to the front door when she yanked on his arm. “No. Go out the back, so he doesn’t see you.”

From the look of panic on her face, he didn’t have time to ask why. Since Sam had parked a few doors down, the husband wouldn’t guess anyone was inside his house. He saw no reason to upset that apple cart. He’d grown up in a home of domestic turmoil and didn’t need to cause Sheila any more grief, so he slipped out the back, happy to inhale the fresh salt air and be on his way.

Next stop, Ybor City, to visit the strange sounding store—and hopefully to locate Deidra Willows. The trip there took no more than fifteen minutes. At six thirty, few people walked the streets. From what he’d heard, the bar scene didn’t heat up until nine or so. The couple of times he’d ventured here for dinner, the mostly Cuban cuisine had been great, but the rowdy crowd had been too noisy for his tastes.

Dusk had settled over the tops of the buildings, casting a shimmering gold layer over the hundred-year old brick buildings. Christmas lights were strung across the street from ornate lamp to ornate lamp, giving the neighborhood a festive look.

Sam turned onto 22^nd Avenue and spotted Botanica two blocks from the main drag. There were plenty of metered parking places in front of the store. Raised a Catholic, he’d never had a reason to visit an occult store before.

Determined to find out if Creighton was the man in his lab, he stepped through the entrance and almost laughed when a weird, ghoulish sounding bell announced his arrival. A combination of mustiness, incense, and something he couldn’t put his finger on permeated the air. Given how the place was crammed full of merchandise and small knickknacks, he figured the dust quotient would break the air quality meter.

Two teenager girls were browsing the back of the store and a forty-something year old woman was leafing through a book. A pretty pixie, keeping sentinel over the cash register, looked bored. She glanced up, and it was as if she’d shot out a tractor beam right at his chest, ready to reel him in.