With considerable reluctance, I opened the envelope marked PHOTOS. Death had caught Victim One’s face in a hideous rictus, eyes and mouth wide, terrified, like that Edvard Munch painting. She died screaming, with no one to hear her.

The forensic analysis reports on Murder One were not helpful. The criminalists had vacuumed and grid-searched thoroughly. Even taken the trap from the vents and examined them. Found a few soil deposits, but nothing useful. Organic stains were unavailing. The preliminary victimology reports were even more of a joke. We didn’t know who either victim was, making it almost impossible to speculate as to motives or why the victims were chosen.

Now here was an interesting tidbit-Victim Two was pregnant, just barely. Did the killer know? Was that why she had been chosen? Or why she had been killed?

I read the handwriting, ink, and paper analysis that had been performed on the two messages left with the corpses. Although the notes were handwritten-probably a necessity given that many of the characters used don’t appear on a standard keyboard-the writer was probably not using his usual hand. A rightie using his left, or vice versa. It was the most common way of concealing handwriting. It would account for the shakiness of the lines, the inconsistency in character size. But that made it impossible for the expert to draw any conclusions regarding the personality being masked.

The handwriting expert did provide one interesting bit of information: the writer was using a fountain pen, gold-tipped broad nib. In this day and age. When you could find a fifty-cent Bic in any drugstore. He was using a fountain pen and a blotter.

I spent the rest of the workday messing about in the database for psychological profiling of serial killers maintained by the FBI’s Behavioral Science experts. I am a huge admirer of the work John Douglas did, interviewing serial killers and cataloging the patterns and similarities in their backgrounds, as well as their modus operandi. But I didn’t find much that pertained to the case at hand. With each new piece of information, however small, I got a growing sense that we were dealing with something entirely out of the ordinary, something I had never seen before.

Maybe something no one had seen before.

Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department-Central Division-was more hectic than M &M World on a Saturday night. Chaos reigned supreme. You’d think they had slots in there, the way people wandered in and out, back and forth. Twenty conversations going at once, not to mention a few scuffles and one flat-out fistfight between a plainclothes vice cop and a young lady of the evening he had in custody. The room was humid and noisome, reeking of sweat and stale coffee and fetid breath.

How did people work under these conditions? he wondered. What utter banalities these officers were, with their rolled-up sleeves and underarm stains. All they needed were Irish accents and a box of crullers to complete the picture. It seemed unlikely that this crowd could apprehend a purse snatcher. And these were his adversaries?

He was astonished. And in all honesty, a bit disappointed.

Where was she, the raven woman? The one who tried to understand.

He’d chosen his disguise with exquisite care. It had to be subtle; she would detect any major attempt at subterfuge. And he did not want to bury himself so deeply that she could not perceive his true self. Just enough that any formal description she might give at a later time would be useless. He wore a false mustache, a simple bit of misdirection, but one that seemed to alter the entire character of his face. He’d forgone his contact lenses and was wearing the wire-rimmed glasses of his early youth. And in his boldest stroke, he’d darkened his hair. He had considered going blond-he’d always fancied the effete, sensitive poet look-but he sensed that she would be more comfortable with dark hair. Black, like her own. Black like the raven.

He would be forced to prevaricate, for his own safety, and he wasn’t happy about that. A southern gentlemen does not tell tarradiddles. Except, he felt it fair to add, in self-preservation. His appearance itself was a lie, come to that, so what additional damage to his integrity could a few words do?

He waited for what seemed an interminable time but saw no traces of her. In fact, he saw no female at all, discounting the ones wearing handcuffs. How was he to learn anything about her when he didn’t even know her name?

He approached the front desk clerk. “Beg pardon, sir. I need to speak to someone.”

The clerk looked up. “Wanna give me a hint?”

“It’s about the young woman found at the Transylvania.”

“Okay,” he said wearily. “What about her?”

“If you don’t mind, I need to talk to someone working on the case.”

“Granger isn’t here.”

“Actually, I need to speak to the woman…”

The clerk seemed lost. “The dead woman?”

“No, the one working the homicide.”

“Granger hasn’t brought in any female detectives.”

Patience, he told himself. Patience. “I wonder if perhaps you might be mistaken. I’m quite certain I saw her yesterday at the crime scene.”

No reaction from the clerk.

“I don’t recall her name, but she was quite tall. Slender.” He paused. “And hair the color of the raven.”

“You talkin’ about Pulaski?”

“Perhaps I am.”

“She isn’t on the case. Not officially, anyway. She isn’t even on the force anymore. She’s just been brought in to give advice or something. Weirdos are her specialty.”

“Do tell.”

“Yeah.” He lowered his voice. “Big mistake, if you ask me.”

“You don’t care for… Miss Pulaski?”

“Not that I’m one to talk out of school.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Bitch and a half.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She was never exactly Shirley Temple. But since her old man died…” He whistled.

“Is she… coping with her loss?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s coping.” He made a drinking motion with his hand. “In the worst possible way. Look, if you want to talk to her, she’s coming up the stairs right now.” His voice dropped again. “But if I were you, I’d stick with Granger.”

He pivoted and cast his eyes down the staircase that bisected the room. There she was. Hair as black as the night. And those eyes-that magnificent dark eye!

It was the Eye that transfixed, that vexed me…

“Are you Lieutenant Pulaski?”

The woman peered at him, a quizzical expression on her face. “Sort of.”

“My name is Ethan Jenkins. I need to talk to you.”

She gave him a quick once-over. “I’m sorry, but I’m very busy right now.” She started to pass.

“I know. I heard about the second victim on the news. That’s why I’m here.”

She stopped. “You know something about the murders?”

“I think so, yes. I saw the most recent casualty, just two days ago. At the Tropicana. She was gambling.”

Pulaski’s eyes narrowed. “You’re sure about this?”

“I am. I saw her picture. It’s the same woman. And someone was following her.” He looked around, frowning at the distracting clamor all around them.

She pointed her head toward the front door. “Walk with me.”

“So he escaped?”

“I’m afraid so,” he explained. “I just happened to be in the parking lot at the time and was able to intervene on her behalf. I’m no fighter-I’m an accountant, actually. I think he had some martial arts training.”

“We haven’t received any reports from the Tropicana.”

“I don’t think they know it happened. As far as I could tell, no one at the hotel was aware of the incident.”

“With all those cameras they have? I’m surprised anyone could escape notice.”

“I believe the cameras are in the casinos. Not the parking garage.”

“But muggers love to lurk in parking garages!”

“Lieutenant, I’ve been in Vegas long enough to understand that casinos install those cameras to protect the casinos, not the patrons.”