Prologue

"I've never done this before," the young woman slurred, shaking the room key at an outline lurking in a deep shadow. "It feels so." She smiled seductively. "Bad." A hand trailed up a muscular thigh.

"Where's the room, April?" The words were hard to say.

"Back of the complex," April answered, stumbling a little with the gesture. "Just like you said."

"You sure you want to do this?" The syringe was filled and ready. If April backed out, she would be allowed to go. If she agreed, then there would be no choice but to act. Colorless gray eyes drilled into April, pleading silently for her to flee.

"Of course I do," April purred, tilting her chin up and leaning in for a kiss.

The kiss was avoided. Instead a slight bow of honored defeat was given to April as there would be no second chance for escape. "Then lead the way."

With silent steps, they moved down the long, dirty hallway of the motel. Above, the second floor balcony cast a deep shadow, which served to conceal their faces from prying eyes. Anxiety over being seen was coursing inside. Gray eyes moved back and forth, searching for any sign of interest as they passed.

Outside the room, April fumbled with the key, her partner watching, a flickering light from the parking lot casting a shadow over her. The shadow’s arm moved, dipping into the thick leather jacket, and withdrawing a syringe. April giggled, her voice shrillish and annoying. The syringe was dropped flush against a leg, waiting.

“Success,” April said, throwing the door open and spinning around into expectant arms. “Proud of me?”

“Yes,” the voice said, smiling down into the girl’s green eyes. Arms were slide around April’s waist, the shadow of the syringe moving seductively down a hip. In a quick motion the needle was lifted and jabbed into April’s leg, the contents expelled into the girl’s body like a spent man.

"What the hell was that?" April said, pulling back, hands swatting at her leg.

The syringe disappeared back into the leather pocket. “What?” the shadow asked, an empty hand held out to April for support.

"I felt something prick - -" she stopped speaking and stood there a moment, the pupils of her eyes dilating rapidly.

"Are you okay?" innocently asked, already recognizing the beginning signs.

"I'm dizzy," April breathed, turning it into another annoying giggle. "And my heart is beating so fast. That's so weird."

"I think you've had too much to drink."

"Maybe," April rasped, a sheen of sweat appearing on her forehead.

"C’mon." The hand turned her into the room. "Let's get you into bed."

"I'm sorry," April said, stumbling forward, her legs shaking with each step.

"Don't be." The distance between the door and the two beds short enough that April fell onto the bed and not the floor. It became harder if she missed the bed.

"I feel so funny," April laughed.

"Too much vodka." An elbow hit the door, swinging it closed. "Lay still until it passes."

"My heart feels like it's going to explode," April said, rolling onto her back. "Never had vodka do that before." Her mouth opened to suck in a huge amount of air. Her hand grabbed for her chest. Fear entered her eyes for the first time. "What's . . . happening . . . to . . . me?" she gasped, holding a hand out for help.

No movement. The gray eyes watched mutely as April's chest lifted and fell with increased momentum It wouldn't be long now. The concentrated cocaine was racing through the girl’s veins, causing her blood pressure to rise and her central nervous system to overload. Eventually, the body would begin convulsing and the skin would run liquid with fever. Respiratory failure was almost certain with the dose injected. Survival wasn't an option.

Bending over, looking into April’s terrified eyes, sorrow was almost felt. "It'll be over soon."

“Please help me,” April managed, her voice small.

Turning on the plea, a zip lock bag was extracted from the jacket, a colorful note exposed. Its purpose contemplated. Did the note really capture the inner pain? "Asking equals failure," the voice says, turning and looking down at April, whose skin was flushed bright red. Her fleshy lips sucking air like a fish out of water.

"I told you what I wanted," spoken to the dying woman. "You said you understood. Why did you lie?" Opening the plastic bag, the note was dumped onto the battered nightstand. "Is finding happiness asking too much?" A strong, confident hand was stuck into the bag, the plastic pressed against April’s burning forehead. "Why did you waste my time?"

Crossing the room, the light was flipped off, darkness consuming everything. Eventually April’s shape appeared before peering eyes. "It won't be long now," the voice whispers, the tone almost calming. The labored sound of April’s breathing filled the room. Gasp after painful gasp filled the darkness until at last the din of never ending traffic returned to the filthy room.

The plastic bag was used to pull open the door. A head was stuck out to check both ways before stepping onto the empty sidewalk. The final gesture was to slip the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door handle before clicking the metal door into place.

A ball cap was pulled lower. The plastic bag was stuffed back in a pocket. Steps lead towards the back of the complex, aware that this was the tricky part. Everything could be controlled except the behavior of others.

The pace of the steps remained calm and relaxed despite the inner need to run as far from the latest failure as possible. It was important to look like there wasn’t a care in the world, even though insides were weighted with such disappointment and shame. There had been hope again. Belief again. Only to fail again.

Jumping over a small wall, the motel was left behind. The stench of stale beer and urine assaulting the senses, the back alley of the liquor store mocking the failure.

The failure needed to be forgotten. Everyone failed. Only the strong succeeded. A glance at the watch. There was just enough time to make the red-eye home.

Chapter One

Special Agent Cait Edmunds leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “The first victim was found on March 12th in Miami, Florida. Body was found in a run down Motel 7 a few blocks from trendy Biscayne Boulevard.” She stopped when she felt the silent but meaningful stare of her partner, Bill Cameron. Making brief eye contact, Cait leaned forward and grabbed a worn manila folder. This she opened with a less than inaudible huff before continuing.

“Victim was discovered by a maid, Maria Diaz, who first entered room 147 at around eleven that morning. After seeing what appeared to be a sleeping woman, she left. A little after two, the same maid enter the room and checked on the woman. Using the room phone she called the manager, who then called Miami Police.”

Looking up, Cait pushed a clump of blonde bangs off her forehead and sighed in tired frustration. She didn’t know why Cameron was making her go over these facts again. It was late. She was tired.

“Go on,” Cameron said, pushing his meaty chin out at her.

She dropped her eyes back to the file. "Miami Police report they had two units on scene by two thirty. Crime Unit reports an on scene time of three p.m. Medical Examiner there by four.”

“When was the scene officially controlled by MPD?” Cameron asked, shuffling an empty paper coffee cup back and forth between his hairy hands.

Cait shrugged. “Nothing in the file states that it was locked down, but I’d assume the original police units did their job.” Inwardly she winced, waiting for Cameron’s mantra to fall from his lips.

“Never assume,” Cameron said, his tone dry. He waited a moment before continuing. “So tell me about the witness list. Start with the maid.”

Cait flipped the first page of the report, looking for the information, not sure what facts Cameron would demand. "Like I said, she’s listed in hotel records as Maria Diaz, but she disappeared before being questioned." Cait looked up. "Probably didn't want to become involved with the authorities."

"Illegal," Cameron said, nodding. "What about the manager?"

Cait consulted the witness log. "Julio Gonzales. Mr. Gonzales was almost too inebriated to question.”

“Did we get anything useful from him?”

Cait lifted a shoulder slightly. “Even though the time clock logged him on duty the previous night, he couldn’t remember who rented the room. Said he’s only there to collect money and pass out keys.”

"How was the room paid for?" Cameron asked, and Cait extracted a receipt from the file on her lap.

"Cash."

"Of course. Video tape?"

"Not a good one, but yes." Cait withdrew a freeze frame print of the victim paying for the room. She flashed this at Cameron. "According to the tape, the victim rented the room at 12:30 the previous night. No one else in the lobby at the time."

"So who’s the victim? Did she sign in?"

Cait drew a frustrated breath, her glance moving to the clock. "This hotel doesn't require names, Bill. If guests sign in at all, it’s usually a Smith or Jones in the book. And it appears that Mr. Gonzales isn’t in the practice of requiring picture ID’s."

Cameron was silent for a moment before pinning her with his narrow brown eyes. ”So who signed in at 12:30?"

Biting her lip, she located the cash receipt again. "Jane Johnson," she said, dropping it on top of the file. "And, yes," she said, cutting Cameron off before he could ask the question. "Her name has been run, no hits on the victim's identity. She obviously used an alias."

"Okay. So, MPD find any useful witnesses? Maybe someone who might have seen this Jane Johnson the night before?"

"In downtown Miami?" She raised an eyebrow, her golden eyes baiting Cameron, but the burly agent just stared blankly back, patiently awaiting her response. "No witness," she finally said, her face falling. "Hotel seems to cater more to down and outs or hourly rentals. If anyone saw anything, they aren’t talking."

“How was the victim dressed?”

Cait stared at the woman’s picture, not seeing anything that distinguished her from half the woman in the United States. “Looks normal. Black jeans, white blouse, pair of black pumps.”

“So is she a down and out or the hourly room rental?”

Cait shrugged. “It could have been her first time. Maybe she picked up the wrong John.”

Cameron raised a brow. “But does it look like she belonged in that part of Miami?”

She studied the picture again, noticing the softness on the woman. Definitely not someone who was down on her luck. “No. Not really.”

“So did Miami Police canvass the area, including Biscayne Boulevard and all its clubs?”

Cait nodded. "MPD did a good job there. Posters and rewards, but nothing of value surfaced."

"Anything not of value surface?

"If it was of value, Bill, it would've been kept."

"So that's a no?" Cameron asked, a dim twinkle in his tired eyes. "Okay. Let’s go over the victim's cause of death?"

"Cardiovascular collapse," Cait said, looking directly at Cameron, daring him to demand she use the file for something she knew by heart. She'd been intrigued by the uniqueness of the murder weapon. "Toxicology reports showed extremely high levels of cocaine in the blood. ME located a single needle mark high on the victim's left thigh, which is believed to be the entry point. There is no other indication of habitual drug use. Victim had been dead for at least twelve hours prior to discovery."

"So why's this a murder and not some pathetic drug experiment gone wrong?" Cameron asked, his eyes focusing on a plastic evidence bag.

"The note," Cait said, lifting the bag so she could read the colorful note, carefully cut from magazines. "It's been the same type of note at every scene. This one reads 'I asked too much?' Never a print on it."

"What about other trace evidence?"

Cait dug back into her file and extracted the evidence list. "A few mixed hairs and fibers were found in the room. Probably from previous hotel occupants. A few latent fingerprints around the room. None on the victim, and no syringe was recovered."

"Okay," Cameron said, leaning back. "Have we had any luck ID'ing this one yet?"

Cait shrugged, the muscles in her shoulders pinching her aching neck and forcing her to wince. "I checked with Jay Krouse this afternoon. He’s still working that, but hasn’t had any hits on her identity. Miami Police have also come up dry. No one’s looking for this girl. "

Cameron nodded, his face assuming a studied look of sympathy for a second before regaining his focus. "Victim two."

"C'mon, Bill," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "It’s after midnight. We’ve been over all this before."

"Victim two?" Cameron repeated, neither giving explanation or choice in the matter. Biting her tongue, she contented herself with throwing an evil glance at him before exchanging the file on her lap for the next in the pile.

"Victim two," she began, briefly looking up at board next to them which held a grayish post mortem picture of the young blonde woman. "Found in Atlanta, Georgia on May 24th. Also found in a seedy motel room. Fully clothed. No visible signs of violence. Autopsy and toxicology the same as first victim. A lethal amount of cocaine which caused cardiovascular collapse.” She looked up, wondering if he'd make her go slower.

"Uhuh?" he grunted, urging her on with the recitation.

“Crime scene unit did a thorough sweep of the room, turning up loose hair and fibers and a few latent prints.” She paused. “None of them matched evidence taken from the first victim’s room.”

Cameron nodded. “So what ties the murder to the first victim?”

“The note,” Cait said, grabbing the plastic baggie. “This one reads 'My eye in vain is seeking.” She dropped the bag back on the desk. “No prints.”

“Tell me about the victim.”

"Positively identified by the victim's mother as 28 year old Anne Benedick. The mother filed a missing person report a day after the murder. Miss Benedick was a grad student at the Georgia State University. Single, but recently engaged to Richard Crane, a Ph.D candidate.”

"Is he a suspect?"

"No," she said, exhaling another frustrated breath. Every muscle in her body ached, making each movement laborious. There were just so many sixteen to twenty hour days her body could handle before she collapsed. She needed a vacation. Somewhere quiet and . . .

"Quit thinking about a vacation," Cameron barked, leaning forward and pushing the next file at her. "Tell me about Victim Three."

Cait grabbed at the file and pulled it open. "Lucy Black. 29. Single. Found in Phoenix in August." She looked up, her face mocking. "How interesting! Looks like this one was murdered, too. Think we might have a serial killer on our hands?" Her sarcasm bounced off Cameron's iron exterior, making Cait boil even more.

"Cause of death?" he asked, folding his large hands behind his nearly hairless head and staring at her with a fatherly patience.

Cait bit the inside of her cheek. "Cocaine overdose." She dropped the file and waved her hand at the bulletin board which held the post mortem pictures of all known victims. "Same cause of death as all the rest of them, Bill. Same MO, too. Three confirmed murders in seedy motel rooms. All cocaine overdoes with no known witnesses or suspects. And all have the cryptic note."

Cameron pointed at the red pinned map which denoted the murder locations across the country. "So is there a pattern."

Cait’s eyes moved from Florida to Georgia to Arizona. Her spinning head was beginning to make her feel sick. She knew there had to be a pattern. Something which set the killer off, but she couldn’t see it. "I dunno, Bill. They all have roads? Airports? People?"

Cameron stared at her for a moment and nodded. "Go home, Catie. Get some sleep and try and come back in a better frame of mind."

"No," she began to apologize, feeling like a disobedient child. "I'm fine."

"You're tired," he said. "Rightly so."

"I'm frustrated. I feel like I'm spinning my wheels. All I do is sit here and go over reports and ideas. I should be out there, Bill."

Cameron didn’t miss a beat. "Actually you should be back in Phoenix working another case."

Cait felt her face tighten up. "I'm a good agent. I deserve this chance."

"Yeah, that may be. But on paper, you still belong to the Phoenix field office."

"Then send me back." She waited. Daring him to do it.

"You know I won't."

"I know more about this case than anyone." She bit her tongue. "Except you."

Cameron snorted a half laugh. "Go home, Catie. Rest and be ready by nine tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Another day, another dollar, right?” It was an old saying of Cameron’s, and he rewarded her with a tired smile.

“Yeah, something like that.”

She shook her head. “I feel useless. I maybe had the chance to nail this guy in Phoenix, but I missed. The MO and possible serial nature had been on the database for awhile. I knew the MO. I should have been able to . . .”

Cameron cut her off. “Drop the poor me attitude. You did your job and you did it well. We were among the first on the scene because of you.”

She rubbed at her eyes. “But we didn’t get him.”

“No,” Cameron agreed. “We didn’t. But that doesn’t mean we won’t. He’ll screw up sooner or later.”

“And we’ll just wait for that to happen, right?” She knew it sounded harsh, but she didn’t like sitting around and waiting.

“We’re doing what we need to do.” Cameron pushed his chair back and hauled his bulky frame up. “Now go home before your pity party makes me sick.”

Cait stared at him, meeting his pale eyes with as much strength as she could muster, but in the end he won and she mutely nodded, standing to go. “Night, Bill.”

“Get some sleep. You’re no use to me if you’re tired and difficult.”

“Sure,” she conceded, gathering her coat and gloves. “I understand.”

“You got a ride home?”

She nodded. “I’ll have one of the duty officers downstairs run me to my hotel.” Looking around Cameron’s office she checked for any other personal items.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll even get you one of those fancy coffees you like.”

Cait opened the door, but didn’t exit. Instead she stared into the nearly empty room beyond. “How many women is he going to kill before we catch him?” she asked, hearing instead of seeing Cameron shrug behind her.

“The Unit’s profile is due tomorrow. Maybe that’ll give us something more to go on, but Catie, you’ve got to keep the faith. We’ll get this guy. We always do.”

“Sure, Bill,” she said, walking out of his office, trying to drive the insecurities from her head and concentrate on something more pleasant. “Like a bath,” she said, jabbing the elevator button with purpose.

“You just made it.” The smartly dressed woman took the boarding ticket. “Go on ahead,” she said, smiling a bit too brightly for nearly one in the morning.

With a perfunctory nod, a hard sided camera case was lifted, the long walk down the jet way begun. Feelings of waste and rage were churning inside, threatening to overwhelm even the fragile semblance of normality.

A quiet place was needed to escape and reflect. It would have been easier to just stay the night in San Francisco. Except home was the place that was needed. Home was safe.

A weak smile was exchanged with the flight attendant. Relief felt when the assigned row was unoccupied. There was no need to produce conversation to entertain some buffoon.

Shoving the case under the seat, the seat belt was reached for and gray eyes closed. Without willing it, the words over ran the brain, a painful reminder of the betrayal.

I want someone who sees the pointlessness, and still keeps their purpose in mind.
I want somebody who has a tortured soul, some of the time.
I want somebody who will either put out for me, or put me out of my misery.

Was it all pointless? Again the heart had been put out there, but still it was alone. Gray eyes opened as the plane door shut, but closed again when the flight attendant began the pre-flight safety presentation.

It shouldn’t be this hard to find the one. A favorite saying of mother’s was ‘the truth will set you free.’ If that was right, then why did only pain and disappointment exist? Why did they not understand what was wanted?

Why didn’t April just tell the truth? Why did they have to go through this . . . this farce? It was enraging. Lied to and humiliated. Hands tightened into a balls.

Just lay yourself on the line, and I might lay myself down by you.
But don’t sit behind your eyes and wait for me to surprise you.

The plane jostled its passengers as it began moving away from the gate. Overhead the pilot’s voice announced their flight time to Seattle, but listening wasn’t important. They would get there when they got there. Until then, the pain would squeeze the hear. A reminder that betrayers needed to be dealt with mercilessly. April was not the one.

Which meant the one was still out there. Destiny would force another try.

I want someone who’s not afraid of me, or anyone else.
In other words, I want someone who is not afraid of themselves.

Maybe it would be different next time.

Cait quietly shut the door of the small hotel room she'd been calling home for the past month and flipped on the light. The pale peach room was cluttered with discarded clothes, papers and food cartons. The only island of order was a freshly made bed, and Cait eyed it with longing.

Her stomach grumbled as the stale aroma of bell peppers and sausage wafted towards her, and in response she walked to the abandoned pizza box and opened the lid. She didn’t know if it was still good or not, so she depressed a finger into a piece, feeling the moisture. With a shrug of indifference she pulled a piece from the box and bit off a sizable chunk. Mechanically chewing, her body sank to the edge of the bed.

Despite her physical exhaustion and mental frustration, Cait couldn’t stop herself from thinking about the case. The study data told her that there was always a link between victims; something that set the killer off. So far none of the experienced minds at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes had been able to determine a causal link in this case.

The rest of the team at NCAVC, including Cameron, had become dead set on a theory that the killer hunted for his victims in various local settings. There he would randomly single one woman out, probably chosen for traits that reminded him or someone he had a repressed rage towards. The age of the victims suggested a wife, sister, caretaker or memory of youth. It ended with the victim’s death and the killer finding some temporary relief from whatever demons haunted him.

To Cait, this theory just didn’t fit. Firstly, she felt that many on the team were attempting to apply a generalized example of some serial killers to this case, and from where Cait stood it was like forcing a round peg in a square hole. Secondly, Cait had the distinct impression that the killer knew his victims. She had no way to substantiate this feeling, but it was there all the same.

She bit off another piece of pizza and chewed, trying to figure out how to tell Cameron her thoughts without damaging their new working relationship. She knew he was giving her this chance to make it beyond a field office, but there was still a part of him that refused to see her as anything but the child he once knew. That made her anxious to prove herself to him, and cautious about contradicting his theories.

Shaking her head, she looked down at the half finished pizza, suddenly not hungry. A wave of exhaustion hit her hard, and the bath she’d planned earlier now seemed a tremendous effort.

"I'll just lay back and rest a moment," she said, kicking off her shoes and tossing the unfinished pizza back into the box. Her body curled effortlessly around a pillow, and within seconds her lips were moving with small sighs as she fell deeper asleep.

Continued in Chapter Two

Chapter One reposted mid-March 2002

The lines in the personal ad were taken from a song by Ani Difranco, Asking Too Much, on her 1995 album, Not a Pretty Girl. Used without permission.