Hank brought in a paper from the newspaper rack outside of her apartment when he came back with her Hardee’s biscuits. He wished he’d seen it after breakfast; now his appetite was gone.

“Hey,” she said, when he came through the door. She spotted the biscuits and smiled hugely, and walked over and threw her arms around him and kissed him.

Half of him wanted to scoop her up in his arms and haul her back to bed, and the other half wanted to run with her down to his car and get them the hell out of Atlanta. “God. I was sure they were going to wrap this up last night,” he said. “Maybe we should have held out a little longer,”

She frowned. “No. No. No. Not holding out was the best thing that’s happened to me in ages. I wouldn’t go back and undo last night for anything.”

He put the newspaper down in front of her.

“The killer left the body right where I told them he would,” Hank said. “Jim promised they were going to keep her safe.”

Jess leaned over the article, reading. Frowning. He watched her scanning the paragraphs, and saw her freeze at one point as a look of pain washed over her face.

“What?”

“ ‘Following notification of the family, the victim has been identified as Millie Hantumakis,’ ” she read. And then she looked up at Hank. “That was River. I talked to her. She was really nice to me, and she had a little girl; she was stripping so she could make enough money to live on and still be able to go to her daughter’s school plays and PTA meetings, for God’s sake.” He could see the shine in Jess’s eyes that betrayed tears, and could see her blinking them back. All the life and color drained out of her face. “River had heard about the killings. She was talking about picking up and moving, getting out of Atlanta.” Jess looked down at the paper, lips pressed in a thin line. “She should have.”

“Which one was River?” he asked.

“You saw her. She came out first yesterday. Had on a schoolgirl uniform.”

Hank had a sudden sharp memory of the short, bouncy, dark-haired girl with the awful taste in music. “Her?" he said. “Not the redhead in the harem costume? You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

But the killer hadn’t touched River. Not recently enough to show up for him, anyway.

But that was the problem with trying to read living people. Influences overlaid each other quickly, as people hugged, shook hands, brushed past each other, washed and showered, moved and changed focus over and over. The focused intent in the touch of the killer a few hours earlier could disappear in the events of an ordinary day.

Conversely, inanimate objects — and corpses — held on to impressions. Sometimes for a very long time.

Hank closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with one hand.

“Piedmont Park,” he said. “Where I told Jim the guy was going to dump her body. But the girl who the killer wanted called herself Ginger Rose. When I touched her, I got a clear image that she was going to be the next one. And I read the killer’s decision to dump the body exactly where he did.”

“Is this thing of yours an exact science?” Jess asked. “Have you made mistakes before?”

“Of course I’ve made mistakes. I’m as prone to misconception and error as you are. Or anyone else is. My fuckup has never cost someone else her life, though. And I never cost some kid her mother.” Hank put the biscuits on the table. “There’s a dead dancer on the bridge, right where I said she’d be. But she isn’t the woman I said she would be, because the cops were watching the wrong girl all night. Because I told them to. How did I screw this up so badly?”

“Maybe you didn’t. You said... Ginger Rose. I remember her. Her boyfriend had just gone apeshit on her. Maybe that’s what you were sensing. Maybe he intended to kill her, and you saved her life by having the cops watch the place.”

“That’s possible only if her boyfriend is the same killer who’s slaughtered the other dancers. I waved Ginger Rose over, stuck money in her costume, and got so sick from the feedback of the murderer that I had to go throw up. When I came back out, I called Jim and told him what I’d discovered.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You touched her costume? Only her costume? Belly-dancing costume? Kind of an I Dream of Jeannie thing? Blue?”

“Yeah.”

“That wasn’t her costume,” Jess said. “That costume belonged to River — Ginger Rose’s whacked-out ex-boyfriend diced all of her costumes in an attempt to force her to quit. So River let her borrow a costume she wasn’t going to wear.”

“And I touched the costume, not the girl. Because inanimate things give me more accurate readings. I sent everyone in the wrong direction from the very start,” he said, feeling sick. “It’s my fault that girl is dead.”

“It’s the killer’s fault she’s dead,” Jess said. She returned her attention to the article. “You realize that it wasn’t good investigative reporting that broke this story,” she said.

“What?”

“This reporter was tipped. Maybe by the killer.”

“I didn’t get that far in the article. Why do you say that?”

“Couple of things. First, the reporter notes that he was first on the scene. Which right there means somebody called him. No reporter merely happened to be walking through Piedmont Park to stumble across a fresh body at five in the morning. With a photograph. Second, he says that his source states that police, state, and federal agents are already investigating three similar killings. And when asked, the FBI confirmed this. How about a nice ‘no comment’ next time, guys?” she muttered under her breath.

“Not happy with the FBI?”

“Not so much. We were trying to keep the fact that there was a case quiet long enough to maybe slide in under the killers’ radar. And now... well, there’s no chance in hell of that, is there?”

He had, for one horrible, stupid instant, an urge to tell her she was really cute when she was mad. Sanity prevailed, however, and he pulled her into his arms and hugged her. “You’ll get them. Him. Dammit, Jess, everything I get is telling me this is one killer working alone, not three.”

She sighed and slid her arms around his waist. “Maybe. One would make a hell of a lot more sense. It doesn’t fit the facts.” She squeezed tighter. “And I’d love to say that I knew we were going to get him. But most serial killers aren’t caught, you know. If it comes to it, we’ll roust the devil out of hell looking for this one.”

“You’re exactly the woman to do it,” Hank told her.

She pulled away from him, and he felt a pang of loss. “I need to call Jim and find out what’s going on. Give me... say... half an hour, okay? And then I’ll update you on what he tells me.”

Hank nodded. Jess sat at the table, cell phone in hand, and called in. Hank turned on the tiny television supplied with the furnished studio and surfed to local news.

And there it was. A wobbly picture of a body in Piedmont Park, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. Yellow tape fluttering in the breeze, detectives and forensic technicians and two guys with GBI in big letters on the backs of their jackets, and one guy with FBI on the back of his jacket, all inside of the perimeter. More cops and a throng of bystanders on the outside. A crush of reporters doing stand-ups around one edge. This guy was back a bit and had found something high to stand on, because he was the only one who actually had a shot of the body.

Hank suddenly realized the cameraman was up a tree, following the “If it bleeds, it leads” dictum by getting as much of the horror of this thing as possible on camera for Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public. The reporter was in voiceover. Then the shot changed, and the studio face took over.

“Breaking news — a local celebrity has been connected to this murder by an eyewitness,” the male hairdo said. “Jason Hemly, who plays bumbling Dr. Bob Buckley in the hit sitcom Heartthrob, was identified leaving the scene of the crime this morning after allegedly dumping the body. Local police received an anonymous phone call shortly after the body was discovered, stating that before dawn this morning, Mr. Hemly was seen carrying a body wrapped in black plastic bags out of his home, and putting the body in the trunk of his car.”

The scene switched to another telephoto shot — this time of the driveway of a gorgeous mansion, where police had just opened the trunk of a black Mercedes, and with gloved hands were carefully lifting out two lawn-and-garden-type bags that had been taped together to form what looked like a body bag, even from a distance. One detective ran into the scene carrying something small in a clear plastic bag. Whatever it was caused a flurry. Hank suddenly realized the detective was Charlie, and the one with his back to the camera looking through the trunk was Jim.

Hank wasn’t even hearing the hairdo’s commentary anymore. Jess came over and stood beside him, watching. “Guess that explains why they aren’t answering their phones,” Jess said.

The camera then zoomed into a close-up of the handsome Jason Hemly, wearing pajama bottoms and no shirt, in his bare feet with his hair mussed. He stood on the walk with an expression of horror and bewilderment on his face.

A dapper man in a dark suit got out of his Jaguar sedan, walked past the police to Jason, shook Jason’s hand, patted him on the shoulder, and then turned to watch the police.

“Harmon MacAree. Premier defense attorney to the rich and guilty,” Jess muttered. “What a surprise.”

Hank glanced over at her. “You want to go in?”

“Can’t. I’m deep undercover. Until I hear different — which isn’t going to happen until they slow down enough to answer their phones — I’m not supposed to be seen anywhere near any of this. For now, I’m an exotic dancer. I have no legitimate reason to break my cover.”

“How about because they found the killer, the body bag, and something that had Charlie looking happy at Hemly’s house?”

“The only information I have to go on right now is that we’re looking for three killers. Jason might be the redhead. He might also be an innocent man being framed. It’s my job to presume the latter is the case until evidence proves otherwise.”

“So you’ll still be going in to dance today?”

“If I don’t hear from Jim or Charlie... or somebody... between now and then, yes. I have my job. And as best we can tell, even if Hemly is guilty, there’s still a brown-haired killer and a blond killer out there watching him right now on their own televisions.”

* * *

Jess didn’t hear from Jim until she was already showered, dressed, and driving in to Goldcastle.

“You’ve seen the coverage, of course,” Jim said by way of preamble.

“Nobody on earth has missed the coverage. How does Hemly look for it?”

“He does a very nice innocent act,” Jim said. “But then, he gets paid to know how to act like a nice, goofy, good-hearted guy, doesn’t he?”

“That’s the act,” Jess agreed, shifting lanes. Traffic was horrible. “How’s the evidence?”

“Found the dead girl’s missing earring right outside Hemly’s back door. Found the homemade body bag in the trunk, with hair and fibers. Found bloodstains, old and new, in his trunk. Found cord of the sort the ME has been telling us the killers have been using to bind the victims’ ankles before hanging them upside down and draining the blood out of them. The cord is also bloodstained, and was in Hemly’s body bag. Based on all the goodies we found outside the house, the judge was kind enough to grant us a rather broad search warrant for the inside, over the loud protests of Hemly’s hired shitweasel.”

“That’s Mr. Shitweasel to you and me,” Jess said, feeling good all of a sudden.

Jim laughed. “It is indeed.”

“So... what the hell happened? One of his buddies turn him in?”

“Mr. Hemly had the misfortune to have dumped the body when he was not as alone as he thought. A young homeless man, who had found himself a place in Piedmont Park where he could sleep unbothered by either chicken-hawks or cops, was awakened by the sound of someone talking animatedly nearby. Apparently Mr. Hemly talks to his victims while he is posing them for display.”

Jess stopped at a red light and readjusted her headset on her cell phone. The mike never seemed to stay where she wanted it.

“A homeless guy was reliable enough to act on?”

“Didn’t hurt that a friendly source inside WSB-TV tipped us that the station was investigating a phone call the local police department received, stating that Mr. Hemly looked like he was carrying a body out his back door at around four a.m.” Jim chuckled. “We called, the dispatcher on duty confirmed that they had received that call, but that it had come from a public pay phone.”

“That’s not good.”

“In that neighborhood, everybody has big lawyers. I’m willing to consider that our tipster didn’t want to be the focus of attention. Or maybe to explain why he was up at that hour.”

“Hemly’s back door is visible from the neighbors’ houses?”

“It is, surprisingly. He has a big wrought-iron fence, some landscaping. But those big houses are all on small lots, and we figure any of the inhabitants in any of three separate houses could have had a clear view of him hauling our dancer out his back door, and two others might have had a view from one or two windows. It could have even been someone driving down the street. We have people going door to door right now, but so far we haven’t found anyone who will admit to placing the call.”

“How would they even have seen anything? Stuff isn’t too well lit at four a.m.”

“Hemly’s place is. He has motion sensor lights. Everybody around there has motion-sensor lights.” Jim sounded happy. “Plus, his landscaping includes a fair number of solar-powered lighting fixtures along walkways and fountains. He might as well have dragged her out the back door right in front of Candid Camera.”

“His security tapes give you anything?’

“He doesn’t have a security system that includes video.”

Now Jess smiled. “Really? Big, rich star like him, and he has no videotapes of potential stalkers or thieves or disgruntled nutcases? That’s oddly suspicious.”

“It’s good, Jess. It’s solid. Our two tips were shaky, but they’re panning out pure gold.”

Jess pulled into the parking lot of Goldcastle and sighed. “Speaking of gold. I’m now in the parking lot at Goldcastle. It’s mobbed at this hour of the day, incidentally. I see the guys in the van across the street, so I’m guessing you still want me here.”

“Yes. Hemly may give us the other two guys. But if he and his lawyer are going to push the innocent plea, he’ll hold out as long as he can. The other two might lie low, but we can’t count on that. And you might be able to get us some corroborative evidence on Hemly. Girls who had contact with him, how he behaved, where he took them... you know the drill.”

“I know the drill,” Jess said. And stopped. “Hey. How is it nobody was watching the park? Hank thought it was covered.”

“Yeah — that was a bad miss on our part. The girl we were watching never left the house, so we never activated the park team. We’re short on man-hours, but long on cases.” Silence on the other end. Then, “Who knew, huh?”

“Hank, I guess. Signing off for now, Jim. I’ll get you what I can.”

She checked in with the surveillance team, did a mike test, talking into her belly button. She had the portable test transmitter hidden in her trunk. That way she didn’t have to worry about carrying it around so she could test, but no one would see it lying on her seat.

The guys in the van were good to go. So she hauled her kit bag off the passenger seat and swung into the side door of the club, feeling almost elated.

Until she saw the first little cluster of dancers. They were standing along one wall, whispering. Crying. Talking about River, and whether anyone knew whether her little girl, Dani, was going to be able to live with the grandmother.

Everything snapped back into sharp focus for Jess. If they had one of the guys, fine. But she and her colleagues weren’t finished. A young mother was dead, two killers still roamed free and unidentified, and none of these girls could consider themselves safe.

When Jess got to the dressing room, Ginger Rose was already there. “You heard?”

Jess nodded. “Nothing but on TV this morning.”

“I know. I can’t believe it. I can’t imagine Jason wanting to hurt River. They’d gone out a couple of times, you know? River said he was a perfect gentleman. Took her out to nice restaurants, got along great with her daughter. She’d been so thrilled to be dating... well, you know. A star.”

Jess nodded again. The guys in the surveillance van parked outside had to be doing a hula dance right about then. Previous repeated contacts with the victim, a relationship of trust built up. Yes.

“Were they still dating?” she asked.

“No. Jason never dated anyone for very long. He claimed he was actually deeply in love, and was trying to get over a broken heart after the woman he loved dumped him. So for the girls he dated from here, he was good for maybe two or three dates.”

“And after he slept with them, he moved on?” Jess asked.

“No. He really was a gentleman. He never had sex with any of the girls he dated — at least not that I know of.”

Because that wasn’t what got Jason Hemly off. Right. He sounded like a lust killer. Most common sort of serial killer, for whom the combination of sex and torture and murder was the big thing. And if he was into a steady diet of perversion and blood, straight sex with his intended victims beforehand would probably not do much for him at all.

In two or three dates, he could find out what he needed to know about his victims. How to get them to go where he wanted them to go, say what he wanted them to say to make sure that no one would suspect they were meeting with him.

“Are you up to going out?” Ginger Rose asked. “Teri has been back here twice trying to get more girls out on the floor, but...” She waved a hand at the empty room, then blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “We can’t go out like this.”

“I can do it,” Jess said. “I... yes. I’ll go out.”

She changed quickly into a thong, miniskirt, sequined bra, and see-through blouse, and went out to work the floor until time came for her to do sets on the stage.

The place was even more crowded on the inside than it had looked on the outside, and the floor managers with their little laser penlights had their hands full with grabby customers. Jess did table dances, focusing on men with brown or blond hair.

She drifted by Hank from time to time, brushing against him and touching one of his hands casually. He kept giving her the all clear signal that she hadn’t run up against the killer yet.

And then Jess heard raised voices out in the foyer. She drifted toward the door without being too obvious about it, and got a good look at Teri arguing with Lenny. Teri had both hands full of Lenny’s shirt, Lenny was pulling at her wrists, and they were snarling at each other, oblivious to the stares of employees and customers alike.

“You stay out of the dancers’ area, you pervert. You have no business back there. Not now. Not ever.”

“I wasn’t back there.”

“You’re leaving things in the dressing room again and I’m not supposed to figure out it was you? How stupid do you think I am?”

Teri pushed him away, breaking her wrists free from his grip in the same sharp movement. “You go back there again, I’ll make sure you’re gone from here, Lenny.”

Jess slipped out of sight, worked her way over to the deejay, and said, “How about something a little faster and more upbeat? The girls backstage are just wrecked, and it isn’t too easy for us up front, either.”

He nodded.

The next instant, she felt two hands grab her ass and slide around front under her skirt.

“Still love the deejays, hey, Andi?”

Lenny’s voice. Her first instinct was to back up under him and flip him on top of the table in front of her.

But — for the moment, at least — she was a stripper. Not a cop. She was playing sweet and mostly helpless and maybe a little... scared. She broke his hold without seeming to expend any effort, turned, and said, keeping her voice low, “I’m Gracie. Not Andi. I don’t even know anybody named Andi.”

And Lenny gave her a creepy sort of I-know-your-secret smile, and whispered, “Right. And back when I was a deejay, you weren’t sliding down my fireman’s pole every goddamned night.” He was staring at her. “I loved you. Loved you. And you loved me. I don’t know what happened that night, Andromeda, or why you let me think you were dead for so long, or... I don’t understand anything. Not even what I thought I understood. But I know you. And if you’ve come back here now, I figure it can only be because you love me, too. Because we were meant to be together after all.”

Jess had to rest a hand on the table beside her. Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room; suddenly everyone and everything around her looked fuzzy and her legs wobbled and her mouth dried out so that she had to fight to form words.

“Andromeda?” she whispered.

* * *

“He’s so cute, Jess,” Ginny said over the phone. Jess couldn’t help but smile at the happiness in her sister’s voice. “Tall and blond and handsome. He was a football player in high school until he broke a leg. Oh, God, he’s such a bad boy, too. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but he talked me out of my clothes the first time we went out together.”

And Jess asked, “You guys... did it?”

“We did. We do. Oh, Jess, you won’t believe it. Sex is better than anything you can imagine. And he’s so... Wow. He talks about us in five years, and what our kids will look like, and he’s so... romantic. A romantic bad boy. Imagine.”

Jess was trying to get her mind around the fact that Ginny was having sex with someone. They’d promised each other they weren’t going to, that they were going to stay focused on dance until they made it. But Ginny’s plans had derailed. “Has Mama met him?"

“You are crazy. He thinks my name is Andromeda, and that I’m an orphan. There’s no way I’m taking him home to meet Mama. She’d explode.”

Which had not sounded terribly promising to Jess. “What does he do? What’s his name? Tell me everything.”

“He’s a deejay at the club where I’m dancing. His name is Mitch. Mitch Devon, but it ought to be Mitch Divine.”