for the vehicle. When she was halfway across the lot, a scuffling sound came from behind her. Her steps faltered, her heart leaped to her throat.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams.

The sound came again. Followed by another. Breathing? A soft laugh?

Fear choked her. He could have followed her. Been waiting out here for her. With a cry, she broke into a run. She reached her vehicle, got the door open and scrambled inside. Only half aware of Ranger, she hit the auto-lock, got the engine started and backed out of the spot, so fast her tires squealed.

Then she looked.

The parking lot appeared empty.

She searched the shadows, the row of tall bushes along the side of the building. A cat darted across the

dark lot; the branches of the trees swayed in the breeze.

A tight laugh bubbled to her lips. She was losing it. Letting her imagination get away from her. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d wanted her afraid. He wanted to terrorize her. He had succeeded, dammit. She was scared to her core.

TWENTY-NINE Friday, October 24, 2003 5:45 a.m.

Stacy parked her vehicle beside Mac's. She swung open the door and stepped out, looking left, toward Fair Park. Star, the park's permanent Ferris wheel, jutted into the dawn sky, a large, dark silhouette against the pastel light.

She slammed the door and started for the alley and the crime-scene tape stretched obscenely across its front. Stacy's breath made frosty clouds in the chilly air. She rubbed her hands together, wishing for a pair of gloves. Leather, lined with fur.

Some mornings latex just didn't cut it.

Mac met her at the alley entrance. "How-dy folks," he said, mimicking Big Tex, the fifty-two-feet-tall cowboy who had been greeting Texas State Fair visitors since 1952.

"Put a sock in it, Tex."

She ducked under the crime-scene tape. Mac handed her his foam cup of hot coffee. "Seems like you

need it more than I do."

"Thanks." She accepted the cup and sipped. Mac, she learned, took his coffee black and sweet. Real sweet. She took another sip, anyway.

"What've we got?"

"Don't have much yet. Woman. A bag lady found her while scavenging for breakfast."

"In the Dumpster?"

"Yup."

"Our lucky day. Professional girl?"

"Could be. Neighborhood for it."

The blocks surrounding the 277-acre Fair Park had earned the t.i.tle of the most dangerous real estate in

Dallas. The area was home to gangs, drugs, prost.i.tution and all the goodies that went along with those

endeavors.

Stacy and Mac made their way toward the Dumpster. The alley stank, despite the cold. She nodded at the uniform standing closest to the bin, looking miserable.

"You answered the call?" she asked him.

"Yeah. We were in the neighborhood. Partner and I called it in, secured the scene."

She nodded toward the other uniform, hovering just beyond the mouth of the alley. "That him?"

"Yeah. He rounded up the bag lady. She called it in from a cell phone. Can you believe that s.h.i.t? Even

b.u.ms have cell phones now."

Stacy frowned. "You touch anything?"

"Nope. Verified the body, called it in. That's it."

She looked at Mac. "You want to do the honors or shall I?"

"Ladies first."

She handed him the coffee and fitted on her rubber gloves. Someone, most probably the bag lady, had

built a makeshift step stool out of gallon paint cans.

"Flashlight?" she asked no one in particular.

"Got it." The uniform handed her his. She thanked him, flipped it on and stepped onto the cans.

Stacy pointed the beam into the three-quarters-full bin. The murderer had wrapped the victim in dark

plastic sheeting. The bag lady had peeled a corner of the sheeting away, enough to reveal part of a woman's face.

Stacy made a quick sketch, then peeled it farther back, gagging at the smell. Her eyes teared.

"The flu's starting to look d.a.m.n good to me," Mac said, interrupting her thoughts. "How about you?"

"Retching's never been my thing."

"You'd rather be freezing your a.s.s off while you fish around for a stiff in a stinking Dumpster than hugging the porcelain G.o.d in the warmth and comfort of your own home?"

"Something like that." She looked at him. "Do you mind?"

"Have a ball."

The vic appeared to have been dead several days. The cold weather had slowed the decomposition

process slightly. The unnatural angle of the head suggested her neck might have been broken. She was naked from the waist up and had been well endowed-whether by nature or design the coroner would determine later.

Carefully, Stacy peeled the sheeting back. The vic wore what appeared to be pajama bottoms. White cotton with lace insets. Feminine. Modest.

She shifted the beam. No rings or watch. No earrings.

Working girls always wore earrings. Flash was a big part of the package.

Her feet were bare. Her toenails painted bright pink.

Stacy moved the light to the contents of the bin. Food wrappers, chicken and rib bones, cups, paper products. Beer bottles. Aluminum cans. Newspapers. Nothing jumped out at her. No hand-bag or wallet, though her killer could have tossed it in first and the crime-scene guys would find it when they moved the body.

"When's the last time this Dumpster was emptied?"

"I suspect it's been a while." Mac hunched deeper into his coat. "I'd call this address the middle of f.u.c.kin'

nowhere."

"Let's confirm. It'll help us determine when she was dumped." Stacy scanned the alley. Several businesses lined it, one-judging by the contents of the Dumpster-a restaurant. She asked about it.

"Bubba's Backyard Barbecue," the uniform offered. "It's out of business. So's the Nail Emporium right next door."

"And next to it?"

"p.a.w.n shop. Opens at 9:00 a.m."

Stacy stepped down, handed Mac the flashlight. After pa.s.sing the coffee back to her, he donned his gloves and stepped up. "Yup," he said. "She's dead."

"Funny man."

She sipped the now-lukewarm coffee while Mac repeated the process she had just completed. She watched him work, studying his expression. His heart wasn't in Homicide, she realized, even as she

wondered why he had transferred from Vice. Higher-profile cases? A better, quicker path up the ladder?

Maybe he even had an eye on being chief someday?

Whatever the reason, it wasn't the process.

At a sound of car doors slamming, they turned. The crime-scene guys had arrived, as had the pathologist.

"Man, does Pete look p.i.s.sed," Mac said.

Stacy glanced over. The man did, indeed, look p.i.s.sed. When he was within earshot, she called out a

greeting. "Well, if it isn't my favorite deputy coroner."

"I see we were both born under an unlucky star, Killian."

"Seems so. She's all yours."