“You gonna explain it?” LaMoia asked.

“Several strands of human hair that weren’t hers. All Asian, but consisting of two different DNAs.”

“Two other women.”

“And one of the hairs was carrying traces of a polymer adhesive. Maybe more than one.”

“A piece. A wig.”

“Yes. And we’ve got a smudge of lipstick in the vic’s hair along with traces of blood. Not her blood, but it is female and it is rich in stem cells.”

“Stem cells?”

“Menstrual blood.”

“On her head?” LaMoia said. “Are you just being gross, Sarge, or is this going somewhere. Is this some stab at me and-”

“No,” Boldt said, cutting him off. “We have hair evidence. We have contradictory evidence of menstrual blood in her head hair. We have two women that simply vanished from their office buildings. Is any of this clicking yet?”

“Two Asians. The polymer. A wig?”

“Well done.”

“But the blood?”

“Where would such bl-”

“A bathroom. A women’s room.”

“And how could a woman possibly get it on her head?”

LaMoia drove through three more sets of lights, dodging angry traffic. He was just pulling up in front of the office tower with the lake view as he barked out his answer. “A trash bin in a woman’s restroom.”

“Our boy goes in drag,” Boldt said. “It has to be damn convincing. He’s wearing an Asian wig-hair from several women. He’s cleaning sinks, mopping floors, waiting for that moment it’s just him and a woman that looks right to him-has to be a certain look.”

“He thumps her,” LaMoia said, “dumps her into one of those waste bins, those giant things on the rollers.”

“Covers her with waste product,” Boldt said. “Including, in this case, some used feminine products. She’s unconscious in there and can’t be seen from the outside.”

“And he wheels her right out past everyone. Down to an alley or a parking garage, someplace innocuous but convenient. And lays her out in the trunk. Changes back to a man in the car-”

“And is gone,” Boldt completed.

“Jesus H.! The way your mind works.”

“Fine line,” Boldt said, making a point of meeting eyes with LaMoia.

“We’re here,” LaMoia said, “to look at security tape.”

“We weren’t looking for housecleaners the first time,” Boldt said.

“We go back and review parking-garage tape.”

“I think we’d have caught it. Has to be the alley. No cameras in the alley-at least from this building.”

“You think a neighboring building?” LaMoia asked.

“Or maybe a CCTV. You check that out while I put up with these security guys.”

LaMoia was twenty yards away when he called back enthusiastically. “We’re close, Sarge.”

Boldt held up his hand to his ear indicating he wanted LaMoia to call him.

Security guys could really drag things out.

Cynthia Storm had been working Health and Human Services for Public Safety for two years. It was a long way up from Social Services, where she’d had to deal with teenage miscreants of every variety. Since the publication of a series of teenage vampire books, and a movie, Seattle had played host to a flood of teenage runaways. A city that typically saw far more than its fair share of vagrant minors, the number had nearly doubled in the past eighteen months, and as far as anyone could tell the only common denominator was that the vampire series had been set in the Pacific Northwest. Portland had seen a large increase, as well. Cynthia was more than happy not to have that on her watch; give her the meter maids and the men in uniform any day. But she hadn’t been promoted to the badges yet. She still mostly dealt with the service staff-all of whom had to be vetted to work Public Safety, and their absences had to be accounted for.

Today, she was chasing down Jasmina Vladavich, a Bosnian housecleaner who’d failed to show to work for two days, had not answered her phone and, as it turned out, had not been seen by her cousin, the woman she’d listed as her emergency contact. Jasmina had a good track record with the department, but was rumored by the cousin to be in the early stages of pregnancy. She was unmarried and distraught about it. Cynthia and her supervisor had decided Jasmina worthy of a house call, to make sure that the baby had not led to prenatal depression or illness.

She rang the bell. It was an apartment complex twenty minutes south of the city, near SEATAC, a neighborhood known for strip joints, drugs and borderline import/export businesses. Laundry hung from wires on half balconies attempting to dry in a climate that dictated otherwise. The sound of televisions competed. Jasmina didn’t answer the bell-no surprise there-but Cynthia used her credentials to talk the super into having a look. The elevator had not worked for three years, she was told. She trudged up five flights, down a hall marked with graffiti and was let into 514.

“Jasmina?” she called out. The super waited at the door. “Hello?”

She heard the groan. It came faintly from the back, barely heard over an episode of In Living Color playing next door. “Stay there!” she told the super, who looked ready to bolt.

“Hello?” She followed the soft groans into a back bedroom where a woman was hog-tied and lying on her belly. She’d soiled herself, and her face was streaked with tears and mucus. A nylon knee sock had been used to gag her. She was wearing only underwear and a bra, and there were raw bruise marks-she’d been rocking on her legs, rolling around the room.

“Call 911!” she hollered. “We need an ambulance right now!”

She approached the woman cautiously. Jasmina looked a little wild around the eyes. “I’m going to help you, okay?”

Jasmina nodded.

“I’m going to remove the gag and the ropes. Jasmina? Do you hear me?”

But the woman had lapsed into unconsciousness.

Cynthia got the gag off and Jasmina sucked for air and came back awake.

“Baby…” the woman moaned.

“We’ll get you the hospital! Who did this to you, Jasmina? The father of the baby?”

“No. Was my card,” the woman moaned. “My card.”

“It’s all right. It’s all right.” She was talking nonsense, Cynthia realized.

“Man…took my card. My ID card.” With her hand free now, she touched the plastic ID card that Cynthia had fastened to her own belt. “Public Safety card.”

Cynthia didn’t care about any work card. Her concerns were dehydration, malnutrition and the condition of the baby inside this woman. “We’ve called an ambulance,” she reminded.

“Why this for stupid card?” Jasmina groaned. She shook as she began to cry.

Why indeed? Cynthia now thought as she focused more on what she was being told. She reached out, somewhat reluctantly because of the filth, and cradled the crying woman in her arms.

Why indeed?

Daphne had been briefed over the phone by an energetic Lou Boldt she had not known for the past three years. When he locked onto a case he not only possessed, but emitted a contagious energy, a force field of curiosity, optimism and bizarre self-confidence that she found utterly intoxicating and physically stimulating. She responded to his passion bodily, so privately that were her condition ever known to others it would have proved embarrassing. Her skin prickling, she stepped around the yellow Wet Floor cone and entered the women’s washroom to relieve her bladder and check her makeup. She feared her chest was likely flushed, along with her face.

A cleaner was doing the sinks. She had a large brown trash canister behind her and appeared to be emptying the trash containers of used hand towels.

Bothered by an earring that hadn’t sat right all day, she un-hooked it from her ear.

“Okay if I…?” she asked the cleaner, motioning to the stall.

“Mmm.” The woman nodded back at her.

Daphne took two steps and felt a shock of electricity so powerful she could neither scream nor move. Her mind flashed unconscious, but only for a split second.