What she thought about him.

He had always considered himself a paragon of decorum and chivalrous behavior. He had modeled himself after the prophet in word and deed, sensibilities, even adopting the euphuism of his era. But there were so many unanswered questions. He would follow Susan constantly now, as much as he was able. To keep an eye on her. To ensure that her interest didn’t flag. And as to this new man-perhaps he would have to arrange a meeting. If there was danger afoot, he had to know. So he could take the appropriate action to eliminate it.

11

There were some advantages, I was beginning to learn, to having an office adjoining the men’s room. True, it meant I was on display like a museum exhibit, or perhaps more accurately, like a zoo animal, caged all day long. But it also meant that no one could avoid me, certainly no one male, no matter how much they might like to do so. Even Granger did not possess a cast-iron bladder. Earlier, he had tried to slip past by pointedly looking the other way, so I complimented him on something, I think on the way the coffee stain on his tie matched his underarm stains. For his afternoon visit, he decided to take the offensive. And he was pretty darned offensive about his offensive, too.

“Pulaski,” he growled, even before he got to my desk. “What the hell were you doing with O’Bannon’s kid?”

“I was investigating, sir. It’s what investigators do. Perhaps you were absent the day they covered that at the academy. Darcy was quite useful.”

“I know the kid’s story, Pulaski. And I saw how he acted at the crime scene. There’s no way-”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know he’s been nothing but a burden to his father. I know O’Bannon never mentions him. Never.”

I wondered if that was true. “There’s no reason for anyone to be embarrassed about a neurological disorder. It’s no one’s fault. It just happens. We don’t know why.”

“None of which explains why you were dragging this poor boy all over two grisly crime scenes. Are you trying to suck up to O’Bannon?”

“Don’t be imbecilic.”

“You really think if you play out this charade with O’Bannon’s son you’ll get your old job back?”

“The thought never entered my mind,” I said quite honestly.

“Well, leave the kid alone. Let him work in that day care or whatever. No telling what a crime scene might do to a mental case like that. Might give him ideas, even.”

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change and not kill Granger in the process. “I’m just trying to catch the murderer. Just like you.”

“Which reminds me. You were not hired to sniff around the forensic evidence or to repeat the work of others more qualified to do it. You were hired to prepare a psychological profile. Have you done that?”

“I’m working on it. It’s difficult when we don’t know who the victims were.”

“I can help you with that.” He slapped a folder down on my desk. “If I were you, I’d get something down on paper. The FBI profiler will arrive tomorrow.”

My head jerked up. “What?”

“I’m told he’s one of the best. Most of the boys think O’Bannon hired you so he could tell the press he was doing everything possible to catch the killer. But after the Feebie arrives, I can’t imagine what the point of paying for an outside consultant would be.” And on that note, he galumphed toward the men’s room.

“Thanks for stopping by, Granger,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You honor David’s memory.”

He stopped short, his shoulders rising. “Better than you do,” he muttered under his breath. Then left.

I didn’t allow myself to focus on what the son of a bitch had said or what he meant by it. I had work to do. If Granger remained in charge of this investigation, the killer could work his way through Poe’s collected works three times over without getting caught.

A federal profiler? Why? Had O’Bannon requested it? Because he had no faith in me anymore?

I put it out of my mind. If the man was coming, I would have something ready to show him.

The file Granger dumped on me was more helpful than I could’ve imagined. The two victims had been identified, thanks to the pictures run in the daily paper. The first was named Helen Collier, and she lived here in the Vegas ’burbs with her mother. Mom had been visiting friends and didn’t know her daughter was missing-till she saw her pic in the paper at the airport on her way home. Hell of a shock that must’ve been. Helen had been a petite girl and cute, judging from her school photo. Too cute to end up suffocating, clawing for air in a buried coffin.

The second girl was named Annabel Spencer. She was originally from New York but was going to school at MIT. No one had any idea what she was doing in Vegas. The only person who even knew she was gone was her boyfriend, and so far he wasn’t providing any details. But here’s the kicker: Annabel Spencer was the only daughter of Dr. Fara Spencer, acclaimed TV shrink. Her afternoon TV show was huge; Lisa swore by it. Sort of a cross between Dr. Phil and Judge Judy, Fara alternated between administering homespun wisdom to the worthy and tongue-lashing the unworthy. Her hour was the hottest thing in syndication.

And her daughter was the second victim. As if this case could get any weirder. Or more complicated.

I jotted down the address of the Collier residence. That had to be my next stop.

I was almost out the door when an intern brought me a message.

“Lieutenant?”

She was a Hispanic woman who I knew worked in toxicology. She’d been here more than two years, but if she hadn’t been wearing a badge I wouldn’t have known her name was Jennifer. “Yes?”

“I have a report for you.”

“I’m kind of in a hurry, Jen. Can you give me the highlights?”

She spoke quietly, almost timidly. “Despite Patterson’s protestations, we ran the tests you requested, the progressive tox screen.”

“And?”

“A lot of time had passed on both corpses, but we found distinct traces of tetraodontoxin.”

“And that is?”

“A neurotoxin, basically. It causes paralysis, speech difficulty, shallow breathing, and slowed pulse till it gradually wears off, usually permitting brain functions and speech before it allows movement of the rest of the body.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Given in large doses, it can be fatal.” She paused, fidgeting with her fingers. “Do you like sushi?”

“I’m more a cheeseburger and fries girl. Why?”

“Heard of fugu?”

“The blowfish that’s a Japanese delicacy, but if it’s not prepared right it can kill you?”

“That’s the one. The toxin is found in the ovaries of the blowfish, and it isn’t destroyed by cooking. Prepared properly, just enough remains to give diners a pleasantly flushed and tingly feeling. Prepared improperly, it’s fatal.”

“I think I’ll stick with Quarter Pounders. Any idea where the killer might’ve gotten this stuff? I assume it’s restricted.”

“Theft from a lab or clinic or drugstore or hospital is always a possibility. Or he might’ve gone to Haiti.”

“Haiti?”

She nodded. “I understand you can buy it on the street there. It’s used in voodoo religious rituals. That’s how they zombify plantation workers.”

“And that’s how our man keeps his victims under control. Wow. Thanks.” I grabbed my coat.

“Lieutenant?” Jennifer hadn’t budged. “We never would’ve found that if you hadn’t asked for the additional tests. How did you know?”

I smiled. “Years of experience. And training. Proper training is so important.” I grabbed the report and headed out the door. Darcy, you little genius. I’m keeping you in this investigation. Whether Granger likes it or not.

I’ve lived in this city all my life, so there was no excuse for it. If you live by only one rule in Vegas, it should be this: avoid the Spaghetti Bowl at all costs. But it would be the quickest way to get to the Colliers’ place if traffic was down…