I found Carlo, Margaret, and Adriana in the main living room. I was still in my exercise gear, coming straight from the dojo where I'd been trying to relieve my stress and tension via sparring. I think a few of the guys were glad that I'd gotten the phone call. I'd already put two guys down in the time we'd been at it, one with a leg that was already turning purple from my kicks, and another with a concussion.

“What happened?” I asked, seeing Adriana's still frightened face. I realized how I'd spoken, and I quickly took a deep breath, reasserting control of myself. “Apologies. How can I help?”

“Adriana was in her room, trying to do some homework or something, when she got an email from that piece of shit, Drake,” Don Bertoli said, seething. I'd seen him pissed off before, but never to this degree. He almost never cursed in front of Adriana or Margaret that I'd seen. “I need your services, of course.”

I nodded, looking straight at Adriana, who still was huddled on the couch, her arms wrapped around her knees and her eyes haunted. “Whatever you need, sir.”

He took a deep breath, regaining some of his famous self-control. “First, go by her apartment and sweep it. I want to know if that asshole has found her new place. Second, clear out Adriana's things. She's moving back here until he’s caught and dealt with.”

I licked my lips, working up the courage to do something I'd never done before as an idea rushed through my mind. “No offense, sir, but I think my skills could be used better in another pursuit.”

“Explain yourself,” Margaret said, her voice calm and perceptive. “It’s not often that people contradict Carlo.”

“Apologies, Mrs. Bertoli, but I only speak because I want to ensure your daughter's safety,” I said, intentionally keeping any comments I made directed not at Adriana. With the way that the Don was about Adriana, I had to show that I was emotionally detached, professional. “It is just that while I can do the things that Don Bertoli asks, I think I’d be much more useful in trying to find this Drake.”

Carlo relaxed, and I was glad he wasn’t offended. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

“I can possibly track back how Drake was able to send his message,” I said, wanting to sit down and show how on a piece of paper, but staying on my feet. I hadn't been invited to sit, after all. Actually, at the moment, the one thing I wanted to do most was hold Adriana and run my fingers through her beautiful flame-red hair, reassuring her that it was okay and that she'd be safe. But I couldn't, that was for sure. “If so, I can start to hunt this man down.”

“He’s more dangerous than we first believed, Daniel,” Don Bertoli said, gesturing to the chair on his left. I took a seat, making sure to not let my sweat-soaked shirt touch the leather. “He has military training. Special Operations training. He might be more than you can handle.”

“With all due respect, even a psychopath with military training is within my capabilities,” I said. “Especially if he doesn’t know that I am hunting him. He probably expects a bodyguard, if he's seen Adriana since the murder, not a man of my talents. It is more difficult to defend against an enemy that you don’t know is coming.”

“You want the stalker to become the stalked,” Margaret said, her voice bloodthirsty. “And if you find him?”

“I have some things I’d like to do, but that would be at your discretion. First, though, I have to find him.”

Carlo considered the idea, then nodded. “Agreed. First, I’ll let you look at Adriana's computer. It’s in my study. Second, tomorrow morning, you will go to the school and start your hunt. Adriana's security here isn’t a problem.”

“Actually, first, I think Daniel needs to take a shower and get dressed,” Margaret said with a small laugh. “He looks like hell. What were you doing, getting into fights?”

“Actually, that is exactly what I was doing,” I said, rubbing at the pink spot on my arm where I'd blocked a kick. “Sparring practice. But I'd like to look at the computer first and find out what I can. Then I’ll speak with some of my contacts, men who I can trust to go and get the information we need. Thank you.”

* * *

I didn't have a suit or anything at the Bertoli house, so I had to drive back to my apartment, leaving the computer for later analysis. My mind whirled as I thought about how incompetent and stupid the police and school administration had been. Seriously, online harassment is both pernicious but also relatively easy to stop. The key is changing things. Changing email addresses, IP addresses, and other things can be a pain in the ass, but it stops most electronic harassment. In Drake's case, I wasn't sure, but considering the look I'd seen on Adriana's face, I was filled with anger.

It was Adriana who had me the angriest. The look in her eyes, like the entire world was unsafe and that she was just a little hunted animal angered me. That any man, even a psycho like Vincent Drake, would want to drive a young woman to such a state was despicable.

I'd killed people, I admit. I'd told Adriana as much. But I'd never intentionally tried to terrorize or harm an innocent person. The closest I'd come was the night before, with Carmen at the Starlight Club, and I apologized for that one. The fact was, Drake and Adriana were both getting to me. I could take care of both by finding Drake. After that, I'd talk with Don Bertoli. As much as it pained me, I couldn’t work with Adriana again, not without breaking his rules. Maybe the Don had connections out of the Seattle-Tacoma area that I could work with. Maybe there was a way I could keep my honor and my life intact at the same time.

First, though, I had to track down Vincent Drake. Of course, I'd tell Carlo that he had first choice on killing Drake, but if the opportunity presented itself, I was going to put a pistol to that bastard's head and pull the trigger until the hammer dry-clicked a few times.

I got to my apartment, still trying to figure out what to do. An idea popped into my mind while I scrubbed the sweat off my body, and I felt a bit of lightness coming to my mood for the first time in a while. “Adam. He can help.”

Adam Kane was someone I'd met through a job that Don Bertoli had given to me. Not in the employ of the Don, he was a freelance private investigator whose morals were reasonably flexible enough that he didn't mind it when I would sometimes come to him with Bertoli business—somewhat of a moral anarchist, if you will. He was loyal to an employer, though, and good at what he did.

Grabbing my phone, I called up Adam. “Yo, Kane.”

“Daniel, it's good to hear your voice,” Adam answered in his normal high-pitched whine. It wasn't his most endearing feature. In fact, Adam was the sort of guy who probably didn't get a woman in bed unless he paid for it handsomely first. Short, dumpy-looking, with a good case of acne scars and the tendency to collect blackheads that could have starred on YouTube videos, he was still a smart guy with a good sense of humor and loyal to those he cared about. A lot of women could do worse than him. “What can I do for you?”

“I've got a situation that could use your services,” I said. “I hope you aren't busy.”

“Nah, just your standard following cheating husband cases,” Adam said with a chuckle. “Nothing I can't pass off to my assistant. Considering you always bring me interesting things, I can clear my schedule. When would you like to meet?”

“Meet me at midnight at the boat ramp on 14th Street,” I said. “Bring your computer gear.”

I hung up my phone and looked in my closet. The relatively empty space was divided into two sections. On the right, I had my normal clothes, suits that Don Bertoli would approve of. On the left, my casual stuff that Adriana requested I wear. All of them were hung up on wooden hangers—which prevent lines from developing in the shoulders of your coats or shirts—or clipped at the waist on pants hangers. I reached for one of my suits, then stopped. This job had gotten personal, whether I wanted it to or not. In fact, the more I tried to avoid it, the more mistakes I made. I should have anticipated the emails. I should have seen it coming. Instead, I was so caught up in trying not to break down and take her to bed that I was making stupid mistakes and overlooking things.

“Fuck it,” I said, my hand drifting to a sport coat that I had hanging to the right of my closet. I hadn't worn it in a while—before I'd really started doing heavy work for the Don and had been trying to scrape together whatever I could. I pulled it off its hanger and gave it a sniff, happy that it still smelled all right.

I grabbed my Beretta, this time choosing a belt holster that wouldn't imprint too much under the sport coat, and pulled the coat on. Checking myself in the mirror, I thought I looked good.

I met Adam at five after twelve, having to wait the five minutes for him before he approached me. He’s good at private investigation, but not so much with keeping time. “Good to see you, Daniel. Couldn't you have picked a more picturesque location?”

“It's the middle of the night, Adam,” I said, gesturing around us. “Did you really think we could meet up in a fashionable nightspot or something?”

“Well, I figured that with who you work for and what you do, you'd at least be able to get me drinks and maybe a pretty girl to look at after we finish business,” Adam said with a chuckle. A notorious horndog, I wondered just how many gigabytes of porn was saved on his computer at home. In a moment of reflection, I realized that Carmen at the Starlight Club would have been right down his alley.

“Not tonight, Adam. No offense, but I need you focused on the job right away. Your perks can come later.”

Adam spread his hands and cracked his knuckles. “Whatcha need, D-man?”

“I hate when you call me that,” I remarked for what was perhaps the hundredth time in our working relationship. Like Don Bertoli, I rarely allowed people to talk to me in a disrespectful manner, but Adam was competent and professional in most other ways. I could use his skills. Besides, he did have a disarming charm to go along with his sense of humor, and I liked the man despite his perpetual tardiness and screwing around with my name.

“I know. But seriously, man, you're looking and sounding like you've got a bug up your ass the size of a football. Does this have anything to do with the Bertoli girl?”

In an instant, I had him by his shirt, shoving him against my car. “What do you know, Adam?”

“Whoa, Daniel, chill,” he said, lifting his hands. “The case has been in the news for over a week now, remember? Pretty college co-ed, a pair of murder scenes that looked like they were straight out of The Silence of the Lambs, a crazy ex-professor? Come on, even with the details the media is keeping silent, the whole thing is capturing people's attention. Once I heard the name Adriana Bertoli in one of the news reports, well . . . people talk. Some of your normal pickups have noticed you aren't the one doing the weekly cash rounds right now. I'm just putting two and two together. That's all.”

I let him go, dusting off his shirt. “Sorry. Just, the police are about as worthless as a box of dildos to me right now, and I'm not able to put my full skills toward finding this asshole. Either I take the time to protect Adriana, or I take the time to find and hunt this asshole. I don't have the time to do both.”

“Which is why you gave me a call,” he said. “What do you need?”

“I want you to find Vincent Drake for me,” I said. “Don Bertoli told me that he's former Special Operations. He obviously knows how to do at least basic computer hacking or something. His most recent harassing message was in an email, sent in the name of Mike Rutherford.”

“And should I know who Mike Rutherford is?” Adam asked. Considering I had to look it up, I wasn't offended.

“He's one of the key members of the band, Genesis,” I answered for him. “Plays guitar. This Drake character happens to have a major affinity for the band.”

“Gotcha,” Adam said. I reached into my coat and pulled out a thumb drive, which I passed over to him. “What's this?”

“A copy of the email, along with what I know about Vincent Drake. Bertoli's men don't operate in the same digital world you do, so it's only a simple text file.”

“It's enough to get started,” he said, taking the drive and making it disappear into his pants pocket. “You got a timeline on this?”

“Make it your primary case until this asshole is in my hands. If you find him, let me know immediately. This guy . . . he's mine.”

He lifted his eyebrow, giving me a long look. “You’re not turning him over to the cops? You know that girl’s family is going to want justice.”

“They'll learn about it,” I said quietly. “But this fucker belongs to me.”

“What about your boss? He's not going to like that.”

I sighed, knowing I'd fucked up again. My private thoughts might be different, but I had to make sure my public face was constant. “Of course, he belongs to the Don. But I'm the one to hand him over.”

Adam nodded. “Deal. Consider this a favor though, Daniel. You've brought me enough money that I'm grateful, and this case . . . it's the sort of thing you don't chase down for money. You do it because it's the right thing to do. Even men like me know there are some basic rights and wrongs the world's gotta follow.”

He turned and walked off into the darkness. Just as I was about to get back into my BMW, and he was nothing more than a black shape against the slightly less dark of the surrounding area, he turned back. “Hey, D-man?”

“Yeah?”

“I like the new look. Makes you look less stuffy, more like a badass. I bet the ladies like it too.”

“Fuck off, Adam,” I said with a good-natured wave. “Now excuse me. I have to get to work myself.”