Chapter One
James Kirkland

I knew something was out of whack, only I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Just something, you know. And it wasn’t only that I hadn’t seen any of them for some time. I mean, they’d been living there for what, three, three and a half years, and I don’t think I ever had more than a two- or three-minute conversation with any of them. And God knows, it wasn’t as if I didn’t try.

All things considered, they were pretty good neighbors. Mostly, I guess, because they kept to themselves. Which is certainly better than having neighbors who are always minding your business, or who don’t mow their lawn, or who drop in uninvited, or who throw wild parties and play loud music all night long. They weren’t like that. Just the opposite, in fact. Why, with that great big front lawn and two teenage boys you’d think they’d be out there tossing a football or a Frisbee around, or something. But no. It was so quiet sometimes it was as if no one lived there at all. Though I did hear rumors that the boys had a reputation of being hell-raisers. Maybe that’s why they kept such a tight lid on them when they were home. Because I can honestly say there wasn’t any hell-raising going on in that house that I could see. As a matter of fact, the only way you’d know the house was occupied was when you’d see the kids going to school, or him going off to work, or her and the mother going out to shop. Or at night, when the lights were on.

Which brings me back to the house itself. And those lights. It was the middle of November, a week or so before Thanksgiving, when I first noticed it. I was coming home from work and when I glanced over there I noticed the place was lit up like a Christmas tree. It’s a Georgian-style mansion, one of the nicest in the neighborhood, by the way, with something like twenty rooms, and I think the lights were on in every single one of them. But the downstairs shades were drawn tight, so all you could see was the faint outline of light around the edges of the windows, which gave it this really eerie look. Maybe they’ve got people over, was my first thought. But that would have been so out of character because in all the time they’d lived there I’d never seen anyone go in or out other than them. And anyway, it was absolutely quiet and there were no cars in the driveway or parked out on the street.

Just before I turned in, I looked out the window and noticed the house was still lit up, which was odd, since it was nearly midnight and, as a rule, they seemed to turn in kind of early over there.

The next night when I came home from work and I looked across the street the lights were still on. And that night, before I went to bed, after midnight, I looked out and the lights were still blazing.

After that, I made a kind of game of it. Under the pretense of getting some fresh air, I walked close to the house, as close as I could get without looking conspicuous, and listened to see if there were any sounds coming from inside. A couple of times, when I thought I heard something, I stopped to listen more carefully. But I never picked up anything that might indicate that someone was inside. And each night, when I came home from work, I made it a point to check out the house and make a note of how many lights were still burning and in which windows. I even began to search for silhouettes, shadows, anything I might interpret as a sign of life. And it wasn’t long before I whipped out the old binoculars to take a look, thinking maybe I could see something, anything, that would give me a hint as to what was going on. But when my wife accused me of being a peeping Tom, I put them away, at least while she was around.

There weren’t always the same number of rooms lit, but I noticed there were always fewer, never more. It was as if someone was going around that house each day turning off one light in one room, but in no discernible pattern. I began to think of that damn house during the day, while I was at work, or on the train coming home. It became a real thing with me. I even kept a notebook with a sketch of the house and notations next to each window that had a light on.

At night, I played a game. I began to think of that house as my own personal shooting gallery and, sitting on the window sill in my pajamas, while my wife was either in the bathroom or asleep, I’d choose one of the rooms and aim my imaginary rifle and pop! pop!, I’d shoot out one of the light bulbs. And, if the next night that particular room was dark, I’d get a tremendous rush of self-satisfaction that carried me through the whole next day. It was kind of like one of those video games my kids play. Pretty sick, huh?

I mentioned it to my wife—not my silly game, but the fact that those lights were going out one by one. She thought I was nuts. “Can’t you find anything better to do with your time?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m entertaining myself. Leave me alone.” Then I asked whether she’d seen the Hartmans lately, because I was beginning to have this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if something was seriously wrong. That it wasn’t a game anymore.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t. But that’s not unusual. Besides, it’s not as if I’m looking for them. If you ask me, they’re creepy. The whole bunch of them.”

“I know. But maybe . . . maybe there’s something wrong.”
“Go to bed,” she said. So I did, lulling myself to sleep with my imaginary rifle cradled in my arms, as if it would actually afford me some protection just in case something was wrong.

A few nights later, I set the alarm for three-thirty and slipped the clock under my pillow. When the vibration woke me, I got up quietly, so as not to wake my wife, looked out the window and sure enough the same number of lights was burning in the house as the night before. I was puzzled and frustrated because I was dying to know what was going on. I even thought of making up some kind of lame excuse to ring the Hartmans’ bell. But I didn’t have the nerve.

Two weeks later, only three rooms in the house were still lit. Down from eight the week before, fourteen the week before that, the week I began to keep count. I asked my son, David, whether he’d seen the Hartman kid in school, the one in his class.

“We’re not exactly best buds, Dad,” he said. “He keeps to himself. He’s weird. Maybe he’s queer or something.”
“I just asked if you’d seen any of them lately.”
“Not that I can remember. But I don’t go out of my way looking for any of them. They’re a bunch of weirdoes.”

I went back up to my room and stared out the window for maybe fifteen minutes, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I wondered if I should do something.

“Come to bed,” my wife said.

“I’m worried,” I said without taking my eyes off the Hartman house.

“There’s definitely something wrong over there.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “Besides, it’s none of our business.”

“No, I can feel it. Something’s . . .”

She sighed, got out of bed and handed me the phone. “Well, rather than having to spend the rest of my life with a man who insists on staring out the window at the neighbors’ house all night like an idiot, I’d just as soon you called the police and let them put your mind at ease. At least maybe they can get them to turn out all the lights. Maybe then we can get some sleep over here.”

So, that’s how I called the cops.

Publishers Weekly Reviews,  5-17-2013
This title publishes JULY 2013
“In this smartly constructed crime novel, Salzberg uses multiple viewpoints to portray an unlikely killer who methodically slaughters his family . . . an intriguing collage of impressions and personal perspectives for the reader to ponder.”

James Sullivan watched the Bombardier Global 7000 aircraft slowly taxi away from the terminal and breathed in the heavy odor of aviation gas exhaust. Like ambrosia, he thought. He hooked the fingers of both hands in the chain link fence that separated him from the Santa Fe Airport tarmac and squeezed the wire as though to bend it. He gripped the fence so firmly to stop his hands from shaking. He always got the shakes at times like this, just as some men trembled at the prospect of sex and others shook when confronted by danger. But what was about to happen was better than sex and had nothing to do with fear. He shook out of satisfaction that he was about to finish a job that soon would result in the deaths of infidels.

The setting sun painted the plane’s white skin red, reflecting bloody shards of light off its windows. Sullivan knew it was time to go but he couldn’t tear himself away. Just another minute. He watched the plane turn to make its way to the runway; heat plumes from its twin engines swirled in the cold early evening New Mexico air.

Sullivan released his grip and flexed his fingers to encourage circulation. He removed his baseball cap, ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair, replaced the cap on his head, and walked to his white Chevrolet pickup truck parked near the terminal building. He took a suitcase and a canvas satchel from the pickup, carried them to his co-worker Renee Morales’s Saturn sedan parked two slots away. After he unlocked the Saturn with the keys he’d stolen out of Renee’s desk drawer inside the terminal, he got in, started the motor, and slowly drove away along the access road. Sullivan held the steering wheel tightly, first with one hand and then the other to ease each in turn from the pain he inflicted on them.

At the Santa Fe Bypass Road, he stopped for the red light, then turned right, watched his speed. After a couple miles, he took the entrance ramp onto southbound Interstate-25 and accelerated to the legal speed limit of 75 miles per hour. He let the heavy flow of commuters pass him on their way home to Albuquerque.

Five minutes later, at 3 p.m., Sullivan glanced right as he passed the Santa Fe Racetrack, just before the La Cienega exit, and noticed the glint of light that was the Bombardier jet climbing into the cloudless sky.

The mood on the airplane was exuberant: Ten CEOs of energy companies were aboard, already well-lubricated with alcohol and enthusing about the three-day oil and gas industry retreat they’d just attended in Santa Fe.

Fifty-four-year-old Fred Zook, CEO of Premier Exploration & Development, leaned his bulk forward against his seat belt, fighting the rising aircraft’s G-force, and nodded at his long-time friend and fellow Yale University graduate, Jeffery Raines, the head of Farragut Oil, seated across from him.

“You as excited about this as I am?” he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows into two upside-down V’s.

Raines smiled and ran a hand over his bald head. “Enough to wet my pants. These oil shale and gas formations will not only make all of us even richer, they’ll also alter the geopolitical and economic universe.”

Zook opened his arms to include all of the plane’s passengers. “If we can keep this coalition together, and the environmentalists don’t kill the deal, and the tree huggers in Congress don’t ruin things, and the President doesn’t order his EPA to stop us . . ..”

Raines slowly wagged his head. “Yeah, there’s all of that. But the world is different now. The American people are fed up with decisions that do nothing but cost them more money at the gas pump and cost more in lives lost to war in the Middle East just to preserve our energy interests there.” He shrugged. “I’ve thought a lot about this. This is way more important than just profits. This is about our country’s survival. We need to make sure none of us ever forgets that.”

“Well said,” Zook replied. Then he laughed and added, “But there ain’t nothin’ wrong with profits.” From his aft-facing seat, he glanced out his window and shielded his eyes from the blazing sun, now a melon-red fireball. He was about to turn back to Raines when a flash of brilliant-white light drew his attention toward the ground.

“What the hell was that?” he blurted, pointing at the window.

“Oh my God! It’s the terminal building. An explosion.”

James Sullivan was two miles past the La Cienega exit when the flash of light from the bomb in the airport terminal bloomed in his peripheral vision off to the northeast. But he concentrated on the horizon ahead, where he knew the corporate jet’s flight path would take it. He counted seconds with his fingers against the steering wheel, knowing the jet would soon reach an altitude of ten thousand feet — the level at which the altimeter triggering device would detonate the bomb he’d placed aboard.

Fred Zook thought a prayer of thanks, while he looked into Jeff Raines’s startled, wide-eyed gaze. Then he thought how lucky he had been all his life, and raised his glass of scotch to clink against Raines’s glass, when everything in his consciousness suddenly fractured into minute particles.

James Sullivan drove Renee Morales’s Saturn he’d taken from the Santa Fe Airport parking lot and dumped it in the Sandia Casino employees’ lot on the north side of Albuquerque. After he hotwired one of the cars there, he drove to his girlfriend’s apartment.

Sullivan guessed Susan Gaithers, a nurse who worked the night shift at a local hospital, would be asleep when he opened the door to her apartment at 4:30 p.m. They’d met in a club a week after he arrived in new Mexico. He told her he was starting law school at The University of New Mexico in the fall, swept her off her feet, and moved in a few days later. The arrangement had provided him with a roof over his head without having to go through the process of a background check associated with an apartment lease, or having to provide a credit card for a motel room. He used her telephone at will, not exposing his cell phone to possible eavesdropping. And Susan was a tigress in bed. All in all, not a bad situation. He was surprised when he walked into the apartment and found her crying; on the couch, telephone in hand. She wore a halter undershirt and bikini underpants.

“Oh my God!” she yelled. She rushed to him, threw her arms around his neck, and planted kisses on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Sullivan asked.

“Don’t you know? There was an explosion at the airport about an hour ago. Felicia from work just called and woke me up to tell me about it. She wondered if you worked today. I was just about to dial your cell when you walked in.”

“That’s awful,” he said. “I got off early today. I must have just missed the explosion.”

“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “Thank God!”

“You’re trembling, babe,” Sullivan said. “I’m okay.” He looked over her shoulder at the television and saw the results of the bombs he’d planted. He smiled, pushed her back so he could see her face. “It’s nice to know you care so much about me.”

“Care!” she said. “I don’t care about you, you idiot. I love you. Don’t you know that?”

“Of course I know that. I love you, too.” He kissed her lips and said, “You standing there with almost nothing on, looking sexy as hell, reminds me of one of the reasons why I love you.”

Susan smiled back at him. “You never get enough.”

“I’m just so damned happy to be alive; I can’t think of any better way to celebrate than making love to you.”

She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Sullivan was overwhelmed by her passion. She showed him in many ways how deeply she loved him. He thought for an instant what a shame it was to have to kill her.

DATE: Thursday, 24 October 2019

TIME: 0700 hours

WEATHER TODAY: Mid 90s. Air quality poor. Evening storms.

DISPLAY ON WALL: Wake- up News

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Suzanne Price.

“First, the news from the nation. The federal government says, ‘No hoax, no conspiracy, but still no definitive answers.’

“The administration denies suppressing portions of the commission report on the November 2012 close encounter between NORAD fighter jets and the black boomerang- shaped UFO that appeared over the Mojave Desert, creating worldwide awe and panic before disappearing in a blinding flash of light.

“In Las Vegas, preparations are underway for the now- annual spectacular celebration of that close encounter.

“However, a warning from alien invasion survivalists, who say this seventh anniversary will be the year the spacecraft returns leading an armada. Survivalists plan to retreat to their bunkers on November 2. Gun shop owners report sales of firearms are up, as they are every year as the anniversary approaches.

“Meanwhile, the National Weather Service says another eruption of solar fl ares could cause more communication and power disruptions early next week.

“Forest fi res in both Canada and breakaway nation New France continue to burn out of control, sending smoke southward.

“Scientists taking part in a climate change conference in Philadelphia disagree about the explanation for the significant improvement in the acidity levels of the world’s oceans. ‘It shouldn’t be happening,’ an MIT oceanographer said. ‘Nothing in anyone’s data predicted this turnaround. But I think we can safely rule out divine intervention and UFO babies.’

“Out on the presidential campaign trail, a political firestorm erupts as Republican front- runner Janet Cortez accuses in dependent candidate Howard Miller of ‘rallying angry, frightened people to commit hate crimes.’ During an arena speech yesterday, Miller called on several thousand supporters to ‘reclaim America for Americans’ and ‘restore our way of life.’ Cortez says Miller is ‘morally responsible’ for the attacks that have been escalating since he announced his third- party candidacy.

“Now, here at home . . . a chilling scenario posed by a local crime beat threader. Is there an ‘Albany Ripper’ in our midst?”

“Dammit!” Hannah McCabe jumped back as the grapefruit juice from her overturned glass splashed across the countertop, covering the still- visible display of the nutrition content of her father’s breakfast.

“Bring up the sound,” he said. “I want to hear this.”

“Half a second, Pop. Hands full.” McCabe shoved her holster out of the way and touched clean up before the stream of juice could run off the counter and onto the tile floor.

“. . . Following last night’s Common Council meeting, threader Clarence Redfield interrupted a statement by Detective Wayne Jacoby, the Albany Police Department spokesperson . . .”

In the chief of police’s office, Jacoby struggled to keep his expression neutral as the footage of the press conference and his exchange with Redfield began to roll.

“The Albany Police Department remains hopeful that the Common Council will approve both funding requests. The first to expand GRTYL, our Gang Reduction Through Youth Leadership program, and the second to enhance the surveillance—”

“Detective Jacoby, isn’t it true that the Albany PD is engaged in a cover- up? Isn’t it true that the Albany PD has failed to inform the citizens of this city of what they have a right to know?”

“I know you want to off er your usual observations, Mr. Redfield. But if you will hold your questions until I finish—”

“Isn’t it true that we have a serial killer at work here in Albany, Detective? Isn’t it true that a secret police task force has been created to try to

track down a killer who has been preying on women here in this city?”

“That is . . . no, that is not true, Mr. Redfield. There is no secret task force, nor is there any cover- up. We . . . the Albany PD does not engage in . . .”

From his position by the window, Chief Egan said, “Stammering like a frigging schoolgirl makes it hard to believe you’re telling the truth, Wayne.”

“The little bastard caught me off guard,” Jacoby said, his annoyance getting the better of him.

The others at the table avoided his glance, their gazes focused on the wall where his confrontation with Redfield was continuing.

“So, Detective, you’re telling us that there aren’t two dead women who—”

“I’m telling you, Mr. Redfield, that we have ongoing investigations into two cases involving female victims who—”

“Who were the victims of a serial killer?”

“We have two female homicide victims. Both deaths were drug- induced and both occurred within the past six weeks. On each occasion, we made available to the media, including yourself, information about—”

“But you didn’t release the details that link the two cases. You didn’t tell the media or the citizens of this city that both women were—”

“We do not release the details of ongoing homicide investigations, Mr. Redfield. And you are not aiding these investigations with your grandstanding.”

“My grandstanding? Don’t you think it’s time someone told the women of Albany that the police can’t protect them? That they should stay off the streets after dark, get inside when the fog rolls in, and lock their doors? Shouldn’t someone tell the taxpaying citizens of this city that in spite of all the hype about your Big Brother surveillance system, a killer is still moving like a phantom through the—”

“What the citizens of Albany should know is that the Albany PD is bringing all its resources and those of other law- enforcement agencies to bear to solve these two cases. Veteran detectives are following every lead. And the citywide surveillance system the department has implemented—”

“When it’s working, Detective Jacoby. Isn’t it true that the solar flares have been giving your system problems?”

One of the captains sitting at the conference table in Chief Egan’s office groaned. “Is he just guessing?”

On the wall, Jacoby’s jaw was noticeably clinched.

“As I was about to say, Mr. Redfield, before we began this back- and-forth, the DePloy surveillance system has been effective both in reducing crime and solving the crimes that have occurred. That is the end of this discussion.”

“You mean ‘Shut up or I’m out of here’?”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am now going to finish the official statement regarding funding. I will only respond to questions on that subject. . . .”

Chief Egan said, “Not one of your better performances, Wayne. You let him rattle you.” He walked over and sat down at the head of the table. “Her Royal Highness, the mayor, was not pleased when she called me last night.”

On the wall, the anchorwoman took over.

“Detective Jacoby then completed his statement about the proposals before the Common Council. When a reporter tried to return to the allegation made by crime beat threader Clarence Redfield that a serial killer is at work in Albany, Detective Jacoby ended the press conference and left the podium.

Mr. Redfield himself declined to respond to questions from reporters about the source of his information. We’ll have more for you on this story as details become available.

“In another matter before the Common Council, a proposed emergency expansion of the existing no masks or face- covering ordinance to include Halloween night. The new ordinance would apply to everyone over eight years of age. The recent outbreak of crimes involving juveniles . . .”

“Now, they’re even trying to take away Halloween,” Angus McCabe said from his place at the kitchen table. “Well? Any truth to it? Do we have ourselves a serial killer on the loose?”

McCabe put her empty juice glass on the shelf inside the dishwasher. “Since when do you consider Clarence Redfield a reliable source, Pop?”

“He ain’t. But I’ve spent more than half my life grilling official mouthpieces, and the way Jacoby was squirming—”

“Jacoby can’t stand Redfield. You know that.” McCabe snagged her thermo jacket from the back of her chair and bent to kiss his forehead. “And you’re retired now, remember?”

“I may be retired, but I’m not dead yet. What’s going on?”

“Got to run, Pop. Have a good day.”

“Have a good day nothing.” He rose to follow her into the hall.

“Hank McCabe, you tell me what’s—”

“Can’t discuss it. I’ll pick us up some dinner on the way home. Chinese okay?”

He scowled at her, his eyes the same electric blue they had always been, the bristling brows gone gray.

“No, Chinese ain’t okay. I’m tired of Chinese. I’ll cook dinner tonight. I’ve got all day to twiddle my thumbs. What else do I have to do but make dinner?”

“I thought you might intend to work on your book. You do have that deadline coming up in a couple of months.”

“Book, hell. There ain’t no book. I’m giving the advance back.”

“If that’s what you want to do,” McCabe said. “On the other hand, you could just sit down and write the book.”

“You try writing a damn book, Ms. Detective.”

“Not my area of expertise. But you’ve done it a few times before. Even won an award or two.”

“This one’s different. Nobody would read it even if I wrote it. And don’t ‘If that’s what you want to do’ me. We were talking about this serial killer that Redfield claims—”

“Sorry, Pop, I really do have to go. I want to get in a few minutes early this morning.”

“Why? What are you—”

She closed the door on his demand that she get herself back there and tell him what was going on. Striding to her car, McCabe tried to ignore the whiff of smoke that she could taste in the back of her throat and the sticky air, which made her want to step back into the shower. The heat was due to break to night. That would clear the air.

And Pop would pull himself out of his funk. He always did.

Of course, the other times, he’d had an office to go to . . . and no restrictions on his alcohol consumption.

“I have every confidence in your ability to get what we need, Mike boy.”

“Right.” Baxter fl ashed his best cocky grin. “You know you can

count on me.”

His caller nodded. “I know I can.” He pointed his finger at Baxter. “Watch your back out there, you hear me?”

He disconnected, his image fading from the screen. Baxter closed his ORB and leaned back on his cream leather sofa.

He stretched his arms over his head, fingers clasped. His gaze fell on the framed photograph on his desk. Himself in dress blues. Graduation day from the Academy.

Baxter grunted, then laughed. “You should have seen this one coming, Mike boy.”

He rubbed his hand across his mouth, whistled. “Well hell.”

Baxter reached for his ORB again. He pulled up a file and began to update his notes.

When he was done, he grabbed his thermo jacket and headed for the door.

His mind on other things, he left the apartment on cooldown and the lights on in the bathroom, but the condo’s environmental system had gone into energy- saver mode by the time he reached the lobby.

In the garage, Baxter paused for his usual morning ritual, admiring the burgundy sheen of his vintage 1967 Mustang convertible.

Then he got into his three- year- old hybrid and headed in to work.

McCabe was stuck in traffic on Central Avenue, waiting for an opening to maneuver around a florist van.

In Albany, double parking had always been considered a civic right. With more traffic each year and the narrow lanes that had been carved out for Zip cars and tri- bikes, Central Avenue in the morning was like it must have been when Albany was a terminus for slaughter houses, with cattle driven along Central Avenue Turnpike.

Stop, start, nose, and try not to trample one another as they moved toward their destinations.

McCabe tilted her head from side to side and shrugged her shoulders. What she needed, yearned for, was a long run. Even with geosimulators, five miles on a machine was never as good as running outside.

McCabe’s attention was caught by a fl ash of color. On the sidewalk in front of Los Amigos, a young black woman in a patchwork summer skirt laughed as an older man, suave and mustachioed, swirled her in a samba move. Still laughing, she disengaged herself and scooped up her straw handbag from the sidewalk. Hand over his heart, the man called out to his impromptu dance partner. Giggling, she went on her way.

Stopped by the traffic light at the intersection, McCabe lowered her window enough to hear the music coming from the open doorway of the restaurant. Before it was Mexican, the place had been Ca rib be an, and before that, Indian. The owners of the hair salon on one side and the discount store on the other had complained about this latest example of ethnic succession. Loud  music, spicy smells— in other words, the threat posed by “Mexs” moving into this block as they had others. Some legal, some American citizens, some neither, arriving in Albany in greater numbers during the years when the convention center was going up. Now the resentment was more vocal, the sense of being in competition greater. Even the imagined threat of an interplanetary invasion hadn’t changed that dynamic. Earthlings still distrusted other earthlings. They defended what they thought of as their turf.

Since the UFO, old episodes of Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone had become a cult favorite with teen “space zombies.” According to Pop, the zombies weren’t the only ones who should be watching the series. He

claimed that in the event of another close encounter, Rod Serling had left instructions. Rule number one: Even if the spacecraft looks flashy,

check to make sure it isn’t a balloon from a Thanksgiving Day parade. Rule number two: Even if the lights do start going on and off ,

don’t turn on your neighbors, assuming they must be the aliens. Rule number three: Even if the “visitors” introduce themselves and seem friendly, ask for additional information about how they plan “to serve” mankind before hopping on their spaceship.

Meanwhile, daily life continued on Central Avenue, where Zoe

James, the black female own er of the beauty shop, refused to patronize the Mexican restaurant next door.

At least she and Sung Chang, the Korean- American owner of the discount store, had stopped calling the cops every time the music and dancing overfl owed onto the sidewalk. Of course, the janet cortez para presidente sign now on proud display in Los Amigos’s front window might set them off again. Both James and Chang had signs supporting the current vice president, who was male, black (biracial, actually), and likely to be the Demo cratse nominee.

But according to Pop, the candidate they all needed to be worried about, should be scared to death of, actually, was Howard Miller, that smiling “man of the people.” Howard Miller, who was as smooth as the churned butter from that family- owned farm he boasted about having grown up on.

McCabe stared hard at the traffic light that was supposed to adjust for traffic flow and right now was doing nothing at all. She decided to give it another thirty seconds before she reported a problem.

Howard Miller.

They hadn’t looked at that kind of hate crime because they had two white female victims. But the murder weapon . . . What if one of Miller’s crazy followers . . .

Horns blared.

McCabe was reaching for her ORB when the traffic light flickered and went from red to green.

More horns blared.

Three women, pushing metal shopping carts, had decided to make a last-minute dash across the busy intersection. White with a hint of a tan, clad in light- colored shorts and T-shirts, they were too clean to be homeless.

The women were almost to the other side when a bike messenger zipped around a double- parked produce truck.

The women darted out of his way. He skidded and went down hard. Sunlight sparkled on his blue helmet, but his work- tanned legs were bare and vulnerable.

One of the women looked back, peering over her designer sunglasses. She called out something. Maybe it was “Sorry about that.”

Then she and her fellow scavenger hunters sprinted away in the direction of Washington Park, where Radio KZAC must be holding today’s meet- up.

The taxi driver behind McCabe leaned on his horn. She waved for him to go around her.

She watched the bike messenger get up on wobbly legs. He looked down at his knee and grimaced. But the next moment, he was checking his bike. Then he grabbed for his leather satchel before a car could run over it. Hopping back on his bike, he pedaled off .

A car pulled away from the curb, opening up a spot a few feet away from Cambrini’s Bakery. McCabe shot forward and did a quick parallel park.

She got out and headed toward the intertwined aromas of fresh-baked muffins and black coffee. Maybe the day wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

The line wound back to the door, but it seemed to be moving fast. McCabe glanced at the old- fashioned chalkboard that always had the morning’s “featured muffin.” Not in the mood for pumpkin, she found what she wanted on the menu and sent her order from her ORB to checkout before joining the queue.

“Good morning, sister. Is God blessing you this fine day?”

She turned toward the deep voice and beaming smile of the man in the black New York Yankees baseball cap and the white suit and white shirt, which contrasted with his chocolate brown skin.

“Good morning, Reverend Deke.”

“I said, sister, ‘Is God blessing you this fine day?’ ”

“Yes, thank you, He is,” McCabe said.

“I’m pleased to hear that.”

Reverend Deke went out the door carrying his steaming coffee cup. By high noon, he would be bringing “the message” to any of the office workers who decided to leave the climate- controlled Empire State Plaza complex to patronize the lunch wagons lined up along the street. Some of the workers would pause to listen as Reverend Deke broke into one of the spirituals that he had learned on his Georgia- born grandmother’s knee.

McCabe watched him go, greeting the people he passed.

Ten minutes later, she was jammed in sideways at the counter by

the window, munching on a lemon-blueberry-pecan muffin. Half a day’s supply of antioxidants, and it even tasted like it was made with real sugar.

The police frequency on her ORB lit up. She touched the screen to see the message that Comm Center had sent out to patrol cars.

McCabe swallowed the last bite of her muffin and grabbed her ice coffee container from the counter.

Out of the sidewalk, she spoke into her transmitter. “Dispatch,

Detective McCabe also responding to that call. En route.”

“Copy, McCabe. Will advise,” the dispatcher responded.

Mike Baxter picked up the same dispatch as he was pulling out of the fast- food drive-thru. He shoved his coffee cup into the holder and reached for his siren.

“Dispatch, Detective Baxter also responding.”

“Copy, Baxter. McCabe’s headed that way, too.”

“Thought she would be. This could be our guy.”

“Happy hunting.”

McCabe pulled herself to the top of the fence and paused to look down into the alley. She jumped and landed on the other side, one foot slipping in dog shit. The man she was chasing darted a glance behind him and kept running.

In a half squat, McCabe drew her weapon and fired. Her bola wrapped around the man’s legs. He sprawled forward, entangled in the cords, crashing into moldering cardboard boxes and other garbage.

McCabe ran toward him. He twisted onto his side, trying to sit up and free himself.

“Get these ropes off me, bitch!”

“Stay down,” she said, training the weapon, now set to stun, on the perp’s scrawny torso. “Roll over on your belly.”

He looked up at her face, then at the gun. Either he was convinced she would use it or deterred by the minicam that was attached to the weapon and was recording their encounter. He sagged back to the ground and rolled over.

She stepped to the side, about to order him to raise his arm behind his back so that she could slip on the fi rst handcuff .

“You got him!” Mike Baxter said, running up. He was sweating, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement. “That was great.”

“Cuff him,” McCabe said, trying not to let Baxter see that she was breathing hard.

She was thirty- four to Baxter’s twenty- nine, and, yes, she had outrun him. But she should be in better shape than this. Today’s air-quality reading was no excuse. Baxter snapped the cuffs into place and McCabe retracted her bola.

Baxter hauled the perp to his feet.

“Hey, man, this is police brutality, you hear me?” the perp said.

“I’m gonna sue both of you.”

“That all you got to say?” Baxter said.

“Say? You’re supposed to read me my rights, man.”

“You got it, man,” Baxter said. “You have the right to remain silent.

Anything you say can be used against you . . .” He recited the words with the controlled irony of a cop who had been saying them for several decades. But he looked like a college kid. That was why he had been recruited from patrol to work undercover vice. But word was that he had wanted out of that and played a commendably discrete game of departmental politics, involving his godfather, the assistant chief, to get reassigned.

Sirens screeching, two police cruisers pulled into the alley.

Baxter grinned at McCabe. “Great way to start the day, huh, partner?”

“Absolutely,” she said, scrapping her shoe on the edge of a mildewed cardboard box.

She hoped he realized that the likelihood that this was the guy they were looking for was about zilch.

CHAPTER 1

Providence, Rhode Island

Caitlin Strong was waiting downstairs in a grassy park bisected by concrete walkways when Dylan Torres emerged from the building. The boy fit in surprisingly well with the Brown University college students he slid between in approaching her, his long black hair bouncing just past his shoulders and attracting the attention of more than one passing coed.

“How’d it go?” Caitlin asked, rising from the bench that felt like a sauna in the sun.

Dylan shrugged and blew some stray hair from his face with his breath. “Size could be an issue.”

“For playing football at this level, I expect so.”

“Coach Estes didn’t rule it out. He just said there were no more first year slots left in the program.”

“First year?”

“Freshman, Caitlin.”

“How’d you leave it?” she asked, feeling dwarfed by the athletic buildings that housed playing courts, training facilities, a swimming pool, full gym and the offices of the school’s coaches. The buildings enclosed the park-like setting on three sides, leaving the street side to be rimmed by an eight-foot wall of carefully layered stone. Playing fields took up the rear of the complex beyond the buildings and, while waiting for Dylan, Caitlin heard the clang of aluminum bats hitting baseballs and thunks of what sounded like soccer balls being kicked about. Funny how living in a place the size of Texas made her antsy within an area where so much was squeezed so close.

“Well, short of me growing another four inches and putting on maybe twenty pounds of muscle, it’s gonna be an uphill battle,” Dylan said, looking down. “That is, if I even get into this place. That’s an uphill battle too.”

She reached out and touched his shoulder. “This coming from a kid who’s bested serial killers, kidnappers and last year a human monster who bled venom instead of blood.”

Dylan started to shrug, but smiled instead. “Helps that you and my dad were there to gun them all down.”

“Well, I don’t believe we’ll be shooting Coach Estes and my point was if anybody can handle an uphill battle or two, it’s you.”

Dylan lapsed into silence, leaving Caitlin to think of the restaurant they’d eaten at the night before where the waitress had complimented her on having such a good looking son. She’d felt her insides turn to mush when the boy smiled and went right on studying the menu, not bothering to correct the woman. He was three quarters through a fifth year at San Antonio’s St. Anthony Catholic High School, in range of finishing the year with straight “A”s. Though the school didn’t formally offer such a program, Caitlin’s captain D. W. Tepper had convinced them to make an exception on behalf of the Texas Rangers by slightly altering their Senior Connection program to fit the needs of a boy whose grades hadn’t anywhere near matched his potential yet.

Not that it was an easy fit. The school’s pristine campus in historic Monte Vista just north of downtown San Antonio was populated by boys and girls in staid, prescribed uniforms that made Dylan cringe. Blazers instead of shapeless shirts worn out at the waist, khakis instead of jeans gone from sagging to, more recently, what they called skinny, and hard leather dress shoes instead of the boots Caitlin had bought him for his birthday a few years back. But the undermanned football team had recruited him early on, Dylan donning a uniform for the first time since a brief stint in the Pop Warner league as a young boy while his mother was still alive and the father he’d yet to meet was in prison. This past fall at St. Anthony’s he’d taken to the sport again like a natural, playing running back and sifting through the tiniest holes in the defensive line to amass vast chunks of yardage. Dylan ended up being named Second Team All TAPPS District 2-5A, attracting the attention of several small colleges, though none on the level of Brown University, a perennial contender for the Ivy League crown.

Caitlin found those Friday nights, sitting with Cort Wesley Masters and his younger son Luke in stands ripe with the first soft bite of fall, strangely comforting. Given that she’d never had much use for such things in her own teenage years, the experience left her feeling as if she’d been transported back in time with a chance to relive her own youth through a boy who was as close to a son as she’d ever have. Left her recalling her own high school days smelling of gun oil instead of perfume. She’d been awkward then, gawky after growing tall fast. Still a few years short of forty, Caitlin had never added to that five-foot-seven-inch frame, although the present found her filled out and firm from regular workouts and jogging. She wore her wavy black hair more fashionably styled, but kept it the very same length she always had, perhaps in a misguided at-tempt to slow time if not stop it altogether.

Gazing at Dylan now, she recalled the headmaster of his school, a cousin of Caitlin’s own high school principal, coming up to her after the victorious opening home game.

“The school owes you a great bit of gratitude, Ranger.”

“Well, sir, I’ll bet Dylan’ll do even better next week.”

The headmaster gestured toward the newly installed lights. “I meant gratitude for the Rangers arranging for the variance that allowed us to go forward with the installation. That’s the only reason we’re able to be here to-night.”

She’d nodded, smiling to herself at how Captain Tepper had managed to arrange Dylan’s admission. “Our pleasure, sir.”

Now, months later on the campus of an Ivy League school in Providence, Rhode Island, Dylan looked down at the grass and then up again, something furtive lurking in his suddenly narrowed eyes. The sun sneaking through a nearby tree dappled his face and further hid what he was about to share.

“I got invited to a frat party.”

“Say that again.”

“I got invited to a party at this frat called D-Phi.”

“D what?”

“Short for Delta Phi. Like the Greek letters.”

“I know they’re Greek letters, son, just like I know what goes on at these kind of parties given that I’ve been called to break them up on more than one occasion.”

“You’re the one who made me start thinking about college.”

“Doesn’t mean I got you thinking about doing shots and playing beer pong.”

“Beirut.”

Caitlin looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.

“They call it Beirut here, not beer pong,” Dylan continued. “And it’s important I get a notion of what the campus life is like. You told me that too.”

“I did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I let you go to this party, you promise you won’t drink?”

Dylan rolled his head from side to side. “I promise I won’t drink much.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That I’ll be just fine when you come pick me up in the morning to get to the airport.”

“Pick you up,” Caitlin repeated, her gaze narrowing.

“I’m staying with this kid from Texas who plays on the team. Coach set it up.”

“Coach Estes?”

“Yup. Why?’

Caitlin slapped an arm around the boy’s shoulder and steered him toward the street. “Because I may rethink my decision about shooting him.”

“I told him you were a Texas Ranger,” Dylan said, as they approached a pair of workmen stringing a tape measure outside the athletic complex’s hockey rink.

“What’d he think about that?” Caitlin said, finding her gaze drawn to the two men she noticed had no tools and were wearing scuffed shoes instead of work boots.

“He said he liked gals with guns.”

They continued along the walkway that curved around the park-like grounds, banking left at a small lot where Caitlin had parked her rental. She worked the remote to unlock the doors and watched Dylan ease around to the passenger side, while she turned back toward the hockey rink and the two workmen she couldn’t shake from her mind.

But they were gone.

CHAPTER 2

Providence, Rhode Island

“What’s this WaterFire thing?” Dylan asked, spooning up the last of his ice cream while Caitlin sipped her nightly post-dinner coffee.

“Like a tradition here. Comes highly recommended.”

“You don’t want me going to that frat party.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, but I’m guessing the WaterFire’ll be done ‘fore your party even gets started.”

Dylan held the spoon in his hand and then licked at it.

“How’s the ice cream?”

“It’s Gelato.”

“What’s the difference?”

“None, I guess.

They had chosen to eat at a restaurant called Paragon, again on the recommendation of Coach Estes, a fashionably loud, lit, and reasonably priced bistro-like restaurant on the student-dominated Thayer Street across from the University bookstore. Dylan ordered a pizza while Caitlin ruminated over the menu choices before eventually opting for what she always did: a steak. You can take the gal out of Texas, she thought to herself, but you can’t take Texas out of the gal.

“I hear this Waterfire is something special,” Caitlin said, when she saw him checking his watch.

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

“Coach Estes. What do you say we head downtown and check it out?”

* * *

They walked through the comfortable cool of the early evening darkness, a welcome respite from the sweltering spring heat wave that had struck Texas just before they’d left. Caitlin wanted to talk, but Dylan wouldn’t look up from his iPhone, banging out text after text.

They strolled up a slight hill and then down a steeper one, joining the thick flow of people heading for the sounds of the nighttime festival known as WaterFire. The air was crisp and laced with the pungent aroma of wood smoke drifting up from Providence’s downtown area, where the masses of milling people were headed. The scents grew stronger while the harmonic strains of music sharpened the closer they drew to an area bridged by walkways crisscross-ing a river that ran the entire length of the modest office buildings and residential towers that dominated the city’s skyline. A performance area had been roped off at the foot of the hill, currently occupied by a group of white-faced mimes. An array of pushcarts offering various grilled meats as well as snacks and sweets were lined up nearby, most with hefty lines before them.

The tightest clusters of festival patrons moved in both directions down a walkway at the river’s edge. Cait-lin realized the strange and haunting strains of music had their origins down here as well and moved to join the flow. The black water shimmered like glass, an eerie glow emanat-ing from its surface. Boaters and canoeists paddled lei-surely by. A water taxi packed with seated patrons sipping wine slid past followed by what looked like a gondola straight from Venice.

But it was the source of the orange glow reflecting off the water’s surface that claimed Caitlin’s attention. She could now identify the pungent scent of wood smoke as that of pine and cedar, hearing the familiar crackle of flames as she and Dylan reached a promenade that ran di-rectly alongside the river.

“Caitlin?” Dylan prodded, touching her shoulder.

She jerked to her right, stiffening, the boy’s hand like a hot iron against her shirt.

“Uh-oh,” the boy said. “You got that look.”

“Just don’t like crowds,” Caitlin managed, casting her gaze about. “That’s all.”

A lie, because she felt something wasn’t right, out of rhythm somehow. Her stomach had already tightened and now she could feel the bands of muscle in her neck and shoul-ders knotting up as well.

“Yeah?” Dylan followed before she forced a smile. “And, like, I’m supposed to believe that?”

Before them, a line of bonfires that seemed to rise out of the water curved along the expanse of the Providence river walk. The source of these bonfires, Caitlin saw now, were nearly a hundred steel braziers of flaming wood moored to the water’s surface and stoked by black-shirted workers in a square pontoon-like boat, including one who performed an elaborate fire dance in between tending the flames.

The twisting line of braziers seemed to stretch for-ever into the night. Caitlin and Dylan continued to follow their bright glow amid the crowd, keeping the knee-high re-taining wall on their right. More kiosks selling hotdogs, grilled meats to be stuffed in pockets, kabobs, beverages, and souvenirs had been set up above the river walk on streets and sidewalks. The sights and sounds left her homesick for Texas, the sweet smell of wood smoke reminding her of the scent of barbecue and grilled food wafting over the famed San Antonio River Walk.

Caitlin was imagining that smell when she felt some-thing, not much and not even identifiable at first, yet enough to make her neck hairs stand up. A ripple in the crowd, she realized an instant later, followed almost immediately by more of a buckling indicative of someone forcing their way through it. Instinct twisted Caitlin in the di-rection of the ripple’s origin and the flames’ glow caught a face that was familiar to her.

Because it belonged to one of the workman she’d glimpsed outside the hockey rink back at Brown University. And the second workman stood directly alongside him, hands pulling their jackets back enough to reveal the dark glint of the pistols wedged into their belts.

INSERT TEXT

In the blink of an eye, a life begins and another ends.

She had the day off and she was lonely in Taos so she took her laptop and her sketchpad and sat in the shade at the Hard Wire Café. She was sketching a guy for money because she was broke.

He was handsome, with a great tan and a gorgeous smile. When he left her with a twenty she felt even lonelier. She bought a coffee, sweet iced latte, and hung out—was he gone forever or what?

An hour passed, then two. She did another sketch—ten bucks, thank you—and then the handsome guy was back.

“Come to a party,” he said. “Artists and writers, Colony People. Our kind, okay?”

The guy drove a silver Humvee.

She kicked off her sandals and settled into the comfy seat smiling. The guy had this really great profile.The Humvee climbed up, past the Pueblo, and crossed through a gate into Never-Never Land. Roofs, aspen trees turning, a lawn so green it came from England.

The first person she met gave her a drag. The smoke invaded her brain, curled like a cat. The people were beautiful, some her age, some younger. The food was out of this world.

Smoked meat, soft and succulent. “Have another bite, hon?” What is this meat, anyway?

There was wine, beer, tequila shooters, Scotch whiskey so smooth it raised your hopes for a better world. A world for starving artists like herself.

She danced around the campfire, barefoot. Her feet were tough from pounding New York streets.

A pretty girl, Tammy with a Texas accent and a bouncy blonde ponytail, whipped off her blouse and kept dancing— torchlight on bare tits, sell that sketch, make a killing.

Another girl, another blouse, and another. Blouses tossed like leaves in the wind, until she was the only one left, the only girl not on display. So she said, “What the hell?” and they clapped their hands, chanting, as she flung her blouse away and then….

It was a typical February Day. Locals referred to the month as Febrero Loco, crazy February, because the daily weather was as unpredictable as a roulette wheel. It was unseasonably warm and just to be on the safe side, the air conditioning at Buffalo Thunder Casino, north of Santa Fe, was cranked up.

The casino was gearing up for the upcoming Valentine’s Day, pulling out all the stops with promotions geared toward attracting patrons with the cherry red Toyota Camry give-away. Blackjack modules formed a large circle around the Craps and Texas Hold’em tables. The electromagnetic field and the thousand flashing lights could easily illuminate an entire city. Waitresses attired in short frilly skirts and low cut tank-tops stopped at each console to offer cold sodas, water and coffee, and friendly smiles to encourage tips.

She walked through the automatic doors, the strong odor of cigarette smoke assaulting her senses. Vanity precluded her from wearing sorely needed eyeglasses and she squinted her eyes in hopes of seeing a familiar face, preferably male and old enough to buy her a drink. She navigated her world in a blur, peering out of heavily made-up brown eyes and beneath thin, perfectly arched eyebrows. Dark red lipstick and a heart-shaped face framed by recently touched-up auburn hair completed the picture. She was dressed in black pants, a sparkly jacket and stiletto heels. The first was to hide the extra ten pounds she carried and the second was to give her four-eleven height a boost.

She found her favorite slot machine in a corner next to the lounge, where she could sometimes score a few drinks and maybe a place to stay for the night. Of late, she frequented the casinos on Highway 85staying until closing and hitching a ride back to Santa Fe, where she hung out in the laundry rooms of motels on Cerrillos Road. She was not a hooker. She was a forty-year-old woman down on her luck, having burned all the bridges behind her. She was desperate to win a jackpot to get her back on her feet.

She glanced through the corner of her eye at the man playing next to her. He was exactly her type—brown-skinned, tall, sleeveless t-shirt to show off bulging biceps, tattooed arms, long hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. Before the night was over, they were snuggled in a corner of the lounge, sipping rum and Cokes. If she played her cards right, she had a good idea where the evening was going to end up.