"A Mr. Haskins called. He said Lieutenant Kincaid is looking for you and wo uld like to speak to you as soon as possible."

Laurie tried gathering her papers, dropping several to the floor in her haste . Her heartbeat heavily as her pulse quickened. This could be her break. Dete ctive Kincaid had actually requested to see her.

She turned to the librarian. "If you have time, could you possibly find anyth ing in the paper that's linked to this story and make copies for me?"

"Certainly," the elderly lady smiled. "I love to do research. I'll see what I can dig up for you. Stop by tomorrow."

"Thanks," Laurie called out over her shoulder, dropping her favorite pen in the process, never seeing the shadow between the bookshelves or noting wh en it moved, picking up the object and placing it in a well-worn pocket.

"Nice piece ," John said as he dropped the paper to the desk. "This Miss Mic haels you say is the right person for the job?"

"She's hungry," Cole said, rubbing his freshly shaven jaw. The shirt he wore b.u.t.toned to the collar with a silk maroon tie knotted loosely about his neck.

His trousers were well pleated-the kind only a dry-cleaner could press in. "

She's fairly new. I checked up on her. But I still feel she's the person for the job."

"Are you sure Mrs. Darby will agree to it? Having the local press and TV cam eras at her daughter's funeral, highly publicizing it?"

"It's d.a.m.n tragic her kid died. But if we don't go proactive, someone else's kid will die." Cole took a sip from the too black coffee and winced.

The chief laughed. "It'll grow hair on your chest."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Cole shared the brief bit of humor before bec oming serious again. "Did you ID the other victim?"

"No. Forensics is working on it. Dental records, that kind of stuff. Nothing yet, though they're bound to turn up something sooner or later. I'm laying od ds she was a prost.i.tute and hauled in at one time or another."

"Doesn't really matter. It won't say anything about our perp, except the son of a b.i.t.c.h takes high-risk victims. That leaves us with hundreds of suspects and no leads."

"You don't expect this piece of c.r.a.p to walk in here and tell you he did it, d o you?"

Cole chuckled. "It sure in the h.e.l.l would be nice."

"So, we're back to square one," John grumbled. "What did O'Riley turn up o n the license plates?"

"Nothing. All the cars were supposed to be in the vicinity."

"And the door to door?"

"No one saw or heard anything. We have squat."

"Then I guess we have no other choice. Contact this Michaels woman and get her over here."

"I thought you'd say that. I already did." Cole stood and went to exit the offi ce.

"You're a piece of work."

Cole looked over his shoulder as he left. "That's the reason you hired me."

"You're d.a.m.n right, Kincaid," he said to the now empty office. "You're dam n right."

Chapter 6.

"Marge, Iwould like you to meet Laurie Michaels. She's the one who will han dle the story of your daughter's funeral." Cole paused, giving Mrs. Darby t ime to bring up any objections she might have. When she had no reply, he co ntinued, "I've also arranged for WEWS to do a small spotlight on the funera l for the local news. Is this also agreeable to you?"

Marge brought her gaze up from her lap and looked at Cole through puffy eye s. "I don't want any cameras on my face. I hate that...when they shove came ras in the faces of relatives. Can you promise that?"

Cole looked across his desk at Laurie who listened to the grieving mother.

She had quickly agreed to a.s.sist the police in any way to help catch the mo nster who had slaughtered this poor woman's daughter-even if it meant Cole editing her work.

"Keep the paper's photographer on a leash. No close ups of Mrs. Darby," Col e stated.

"No close ups," Laurie agreed.

Her face was youthful, but hungry, one that had yet to be tainted by the dep ravity of the real world. Cole only hoped by the end of this case, her look of innocence remained. But somehow, he knew it would harden when reality too k its toll. He wished he could spare her the pain and the ugliness.

"I'll talk to the station and tell them of our request. If they don't want to h onor it, we'll get another station," Cole a.s.sured Mrs. Darby.

Fresh tears moistened her eyes. "But others will come. When word gets out about my Shana's funeral-it will become a media circus."

"I won't lie to you, Marge. I can't control the entire grounds and yes, there will be other reporters present. But the only ones invited to the gravesite will be WEWS and Westlife ' s reporter and photographer.

"Unless we publicize the funeral and have it common knowledge, our perp won'

t know of the event either. Then all of this is for nothing. Our hope here i s to draw our man out, get him to the burial. If anyone other than reporters or family that you know shows up, I want you to tell us. We'll develop a si gnal. Is all of this satisfactory so far?"

"Yes," Mrs. Darby sniffed, wiping a tissue beneath her nose. "I have little ch oice."

"On the contrary," Cole objected. "This is your call. If you want to put a stop to this, just say the word and I back off."

"No!" The first bit of anger registered in Marge's eyes since she walked int o the room. "I want this monster caught. He took away the only thing that me ant anything to me. And if it means having my grief plastered all over the evening news, then I guess that's what it will take."

"We also need to inform you that we contacted your ex-husband. He's on a f light back."

"Oh G.o.d," Marge cried. Her eyes widened in fear. "He's sure to blame me. He'

ll say this is all my fault."

"This is not your fault, Marge. Nicholas won't blame you," Cole a.s.sured. "Th e two of you can meet here at the station if you are afraid of Mr. Darby or his reaction."

"No." Marge wiped the tissue beneath her nose again. "I can handle Nichola s. He's never abused me before. He won't start now. But the accusations-"

"We'll put an end to," he finished for her. "I told Mr. Darby to come straight here upon his arrival. If you would like to go home and rest, I'll have an of ficer drive you there."

"Yes, I think that's best."

"We'll set the funeral for noon on Sat.u.r.day," Cole stated, writing the day and time on his calendar. "Is this date suitable?"

"Yes. The sooner the better."

Cole walked the woman to the door and indicated for an officer to see her saf ely home, then returned to the chair behind his desk. He steepled his fingers and leaned back in the chair, gazing at Laurie over the tops of his hands.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"No, thank you." Laurie held Cole's gaze and the two sat in silence for a long moment, then finally Laurie asked, "Why did you call me? Why Westli fe? Why not someone from the Plain Dealer? "

Cole shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Because you're the local paper . You serve the six surrounding communities."

"But not Cleveland." Laurie leaned forward. "What makes you think this man is from the area?"

"Two bodies have been dumped here. The perp may or may not be from the immediate area, but he doesn't come from far away."

"Because?"

"He puts the dead body in the car, cleans up, then drives to Coe Ditch to dum p it. Why?" Cole raised a brow. "I don't know. But it doesn't stand to reason that he'd drive any great distance with a dead body in the trunk or the back seat. Especially if he's used the same site twice."

"Then why don't you keep surveillance on the ditch?"

"We have, though it will do little good. It only stands to reason he won't us e Coe Ditch again."

"Why?" She asked, her tone innocent.

Her forehead creased with tiny lines as her finely arched brows drew togeth er. Cole had a brief desire to run his fingers over the lines of consternation and smooth them out. Maybe he had been wrong; maybe, putting his own hi dden desires aside, he should have used a more seasoned reporter. His choic e had been motivated out of selfish reasons. Reasons he might later learn t o regret.

"Because the media has stated where the bodies have been found. If our perp is smart at all, he'll know we put surveillance on the ditch." He paused, no ting his possible mistake. h.e.l.l, he already told her far more than was neces sary. "I don't want to read this in tomorrow's paper, Laurie. I tell you wha t to print from here on out."

Her brows rose. "That's where you're wrong and I draw the line, Detective Ki ncaid. I work for Westlife and I think I'll be the judge of what I print."

Cole clenched his jaw and leveled his gaze on her. "They may sign your paych eck, but since you've agreed to work with me on this, you'll print what I te ll you to print."

"Will you give me an exclusive when this is all over?"

"You'll have the exclusive."

Laurie narrowed her eyes at him as though she debated on whether to ask he r next question. "Do I get the exclusive on Cole Kincaid?"

Cole shifted his chair; his ire itched its way toward a slow burn. No one w ould print his story again. And this little slip of a woman would be no exc eption-no matter how pretty she might be, or he thought with a chuckle, how much he wanted to wrap her long legs around his waist.

"You find the idea amusing, Detective?"

"On the contrary, Miss Michaels. I don't find the idea amusing in the least."

He narrowed his gaze on her. He sat forward in his chair. "My story is just that. Mine. Neither you nor any other sleazy reporter will print it. You will print facts about the case and stay the h.e.l.l away from my life. Do I make my self clear?"

"Quite, Detective," she said in a clipped tone as she rooted through her pu rse. Laurie moved her hand around the inside of the leather handbag like on e might stir a pot of stew with a spoon. "d.a.m.n," she cursed, coming up shor t of the item she sought.

One side of his mouth quirked upward. "Missing something, Miss Michaels?

"Would you stop it," the agitation in her voice evident. "I hate the condesc ending way you say Miss Michaels , for crying out loud. I think we've gotten past the formalities."

Cole chuckled. "Only if you agree to stop calling me Detective."

"Fine. I'm missing my pen," she said, a slight edge of panic lacing her words .

"A pen? Take your pick." Cole indicated a ceramic mug that sported a pictur e of a mouse hanging by its nose on a barbell with the words "Give Me Strength" printed beneath. It was filled with pens and pencils.

Laurie's eyes met his briefly, then returned to her purse. "You don't unders tand, it's a special pen. My father gave it to me when I graduated from CSU.

"Must have been a h.e.l.luva pen."

"It was a Mont Blanc."

"A Mont Blanc? " he asked, his curiosity piquing.

"Yes, a Mont Blanc. It's a brand name and-"

"It probably cost your daddy some bucks," he said sarcastically.

Laurie stopped digging and looked at Cole. "It wasn't extremely expensive if that's what you're getting at. He probably paid a few hundred dollars for i t tops."

"A Bic falls under 'not extremely expensive.' Expensive is a few hundred b ucks." Cole studied her face and took in her designer suit. Cherry red. "D amn, just where the h.e.l.l do you come from?"

A slow smile creased her face. "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours.

" One raised brow told him she had issued him a challenge.

"Forget it, Michaels." Cole returned the smile. "Even my closest friends don 't get to know the real Cole Kincaid."

"Why?"

"I value my privacy. I won't allow any aspect of my life to be reviewed by th e press."

"But you already have."