"Men just forget to compliment women," Cissy said serenely. "Sometimes we have to admire ourselves."

"Since we're all so beautiful," Angie said, "let's get dinner reservations."

"I'll take care of it. You two get going," Cissy insisted.

Dinner.

Maggie was surprised to realize that her stomach was somewhat queasy.

A man had been viciously murdered just steps from her door. A pimp, a lowlife, a no- good SOB, most probably. And still...

"Dinner will be great," she said. "A nice night out. We'll forget all about ..."

"Dead people!" Angie announced.

Maggie arched a brow, hesitating. "Right. We'll forget all about dead people."

Pierre LePont had been at his job well over twenty years. Though Sean knew many forensics men and women-and cops-who joked with graveyard humor, Pierre wasn't among them. He'd never seen Pierre munch his lunch while a stiff lay on a nearby table; the man maintained a respect for the dead that was sometimes humbling to those who worked with him.

Still, death could be a terribly humiliating state in itself. In life, Anthony Beale might have threatened and bullied, and defied dust and dirt in his Armani suit. Now, his body was naked and pasty white and his head lay in a separate stainless-steel receptacle on a gurney by the autopsy table.

No matter how antiseptic it might be, the morgue had a smell. Antiseptic death, but death all the same. "What have you got for me?" Sean asked Pierre, walking around the corpse, studying the pasty flesh. It was d.a.m.ned odd looking, worse than the skin on some of the corpses he'd seen dragged out of the Mississippi after days in the water.

"Not much blood," Pierre said, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at the corpse.

Beale had already been autopsied, and sewn back up. He was ready to go back in the drawers. He looked somewhat like a replica of Frankenstein's monster, sutures holding together the Y cut done on his chest for the autopsy.

"So he was killed elsewhere and moved-"

"I didn't say that."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying he had d.a.m.ned little blood left in him. That's why he hasn't got any color."

"All right, so he was decapitated. Blood would have gushed out of the arteries ... unless he was killed before he was decapitated and ... h.e.l.l, blood just doesn't disappear."

"I believe the blow to the throat at the time of death is what killed him. I'd thought maybe he'd died from a heart attack and then been decapitated, but that wasn't the case.

Not enough trauma to the heart."

"Still, Pierre, he must have been killed elsewhere. Actually, he must have been killed in a similar fashion to the way we slaughter animals. Hung up and drained of his blood, then dumped where we found him."

Pierre shrugged.

"What does that mean?" Sean asked, aggravated.

"That's a possible scenario."

Sean threw up his hands.

Pierre stubbornly tightened his crossed arms over his chest. "I've taken our Jane Doe out again," he told Sean, indicating a sheet-covered corpse on a gurney a few feet away.

"Jane Doe, decapitated, left on top of a tombstone, internal organs laid out around her. No blood. No d.a.m.ned blood."

Sean sighed, running his hands through his hair. "It looks like we've got some kind of ritualistic killings going on. Some voodoo cult or Santerias or the like. Killing for blood."

"Doing a d.a.m.ned good job of it," Pierre said.

"What have you got for me from the corpse?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. A left-handed killer with tremendous strength."

"Would it have to be a male?" "Sean, that's a politically incorrect question these days."

"Oh, come on, Pierre-"

"A male, or a female, with tremendous strength. I would imagine that most persons with that kind of strength would be male. But there are no guarantees these days."

"So the killer is probably a left-handed male into ritualistic killing," Sean murmured.

"You're right. That's not a h.e.l.l of a lot to go on."

"Sorry," Pierre told him. "When we get the DNA reports back, we might have more.

Computers have done a lot to help. Who knows, we might get a match-up with some bizarre crimes elsewhere."

"Pierre, we've weeks to go on the DNA," Sean said wearily.

"Yes, well ..."

Sean took a step toward the corpse, shuddering as he looked at the neck-and the severed point where the head should lie. He hesitated, feeling his stomach lurch as he leaned closer to the dead man's throat. "What's this?"

"What?"

"That puncture point... there."

Pierre came around the corpse. Right next to the point where the head had been severed was a single, slight indentation that might have been a puncture wound.

"You know ... d.a.m.n, I hate to admit it. I'm not quite sure."

"Pierre ..." Sean began, frowning.

"The way that the head is severed, there's so much trauma to the surrounding flesh that it's difficult to discover additional damage. If that is a puncture ..."

"What?"

Pierre hesitated, unwilling to give information until he was certain. "Maybe he was bitten-either just before or directly after he was killed."

"Bitten-by a one-toothed creature?"

"Give me a break here, Sean. With the head having been severed, that small mark there is all that remains."

"Could it have been a dog?"

"I've taken all kinds of samples for a.n.a.lysis," Pierre told him. "I told you, due to the head being severed, there's damage to all the surrounding flesh. I can't even venture a guess as to what caused that perforation mark, if it is a perforation. h.e.l.l, the killer could have bitten him-especially if we're dealing with something ritualistic. Or with a maniac. I don't know. As soon as the lab gets with me, I'll get back with you."

"I need every single little bit of help I can get," Sean reminded him.

"Hey, I know that. I'm on it." Pierre hesitated a minute. "Did you want to see Jane Doe again?" he asked.

Did he want to see Jane Doe again? Never. In a million years. But he suddenly realized he needed to see her again.

He nodded, taking a deep gulp of air.

"Good thing your new partner isn't here. Where is the young fellow, by the way? You let him out of the gruesome task of staring at corpses?"

"I gave him a more gruesome task." "What's that?"

"Preparing a statement for the press," Sean said.

"Well, you're right there," Pierre agreed, walking over to the gurney that carried Jane Doe. "Poor boy. That was rather like feeding a good young Christian lad to the lions, wasn't it?"

"I should be with him in time to keep him from being completely devoured alive," Sean told him. "Just-just the head and neck, Pierre. That's all I need." "Jane" had been painstakingly sewn back together. She still made the bride of Frankenstein look like a beauty queen.

Pierre pulled the sheet back. Sean distanced himself and studied the cold, graying, decaying flesh of the poor girl. "Pierre ...?" he murmured, pointing to what might have been a puncture, but what had become part of the severance at the throat.

"Possible ..." Pierre murmured, sighing. "And I have to admit, I didn't see that possibility before."

"We didn't have a possible puncture to compare it with before," Sean reminded him.

"And she was in several pieces when you picked her up. She was in so d.a.m.ned many pieces, and with her neck severed, there was no way you could have realized that this might be ... not a part of the severance. I could be wrong. It might just be a jag where the knife tore at the flesh."

"No, I don't think so. She wasn't attacked with a serrated blade; it was a smooth knife. A large, smooth-bladed weapon. Nine-inch blade, I'd say. I'll take more tissue samples for a.n.a.lysis," Pierre a.s.sured him. "I wish I could have given you a few more definitive answers."

"You've given me one."

"What's that?"

"We definitely have a serial killer on our hands," Sean told him. "And now ..."

"Now what?"

"What to tell the press," Sean said unhappily.

"Glad that's your job. Well, whatever you decide to do, you'd best go rescue your Christian from the lions."

"They will go right for the throat," Sean said.

"Lions, tigers-bears," Pierre mused. "A dog-lots of dogs are trained to attack these days. Cat? Unlikely. Bat, rat? A bite that's not even there, that we're seeing because we're grasping at straws? I don't know. Good luck, Sean. I'll be talking with you as soon as I can."

"Yep, thanks, Doc."

Sean left the morgue.

He arrived at the station and reported to Captain Joe Daniels, head of homicide, a man dutifully referred to just as Chief by his subordinates. Daniels was a tall, rugged individual who had climbed his way to his position through hard work-he'd never kissed a.s.s, and he still didn't play politics, which was one reason Sean had been glad to serve the city alongside him for so many years. Sean had never hesitated going to him; he didn't rant and rave and demand results and blame his officers for the fact that crime and criminals existed. If Joe called you out on the carpet, you deserved it. If you were a corrupt cop, you could expect the worst. New Orleans was a tough city. Joe was a tough cop.

"Tell me where we stand," Joe demanded bluntly. "The truth. What you have, and what you don't have."

"What we have, I believe, is a monstrous serial killer. What we don't have is a clue as to who it might be," Sean admitted, sitting in a chair in front of Joe's desk. He hesitated.

"Due to the nature of the corpses, I believe we're dealing with a cultist or a serious psychopath."

"All right. I've heard everything on the corpse in the graveyard. Give me what you've got on this one."

Sean did. Joe listened gravely. He was of a mind that they did have a serial killer on their hands. That meant taking steps to go over the crime scenes with a fine-tooth comb and look for both tangible and psychological evidence. Since the seventies, when the FBI started profiling serial killers, police work on the behavior of criminals had come a long way. Sean had been to almost every cla.s.s and discussion group offered to the New Orleans police on profiling, so he knew what he was up against-and he was more than willing to seek out advice from experienced criminologists.

A task force would be formed; Sean would head it. "We don't know that we've got a serial killer on our hands, but it darned sure looks that way," Joe said, and told Sean he'd deal with the city and state politicians, but since Sean was heading the local task force, the media was all his.

"And your boy is down there dealing with the vultures now," Joe warned him. "You might want to step in and help him out. Hey, if the lad survives this, he'll be a fine addition to the force."

Sean agreed, then quickly left Joe to join the media circus already in action. He reached the press conference just in time to step in behind Jack, who had been valiantly holding his own against a sea of shouting, but was beginning to grow frustrated.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have no suspects at the moment, but we've a fine police department and some of the ablest forensic scientists in the business. Jack has given you everything that we have; when we know more, you'll know more. For the time-"

"What are the police doing to protect us?" demanded a young female reporter.

"Everything they can, ma'am. We're on double patrol around the city, and the governor has asked for National Guard units to help keep a high profile. Now, you all know that in any big city, people just have to behave intelligently. Don't go down dark alleys, be careful when you're out late. Bear in mind that Jane Doe was engaging in dangerous and illicit behavior, and that Anthony Beale was equally engaged in illegal activities. Now, we're not quite sure what that means as yet, but it strengthens this piece of advice-keep out of dark alleys, try to go to and from work with co-workers, and be wary of strangers."

"Great! Be wary of strangers in a tourist town!" An aging reporter from the Times/Picayune cried out. "What about our restaurant people, our hotel employees? How do they manage to be wary of strangers?"

"They use their intelligence and instincts to the best of their abilities," Sean said firmly. "They stay aware, and report anything even slightly suspicious to the police. Now, no more questions; thank you very much."

Sean ushered Jack out of the press room.

Uniformed officers closed in behind them, giving them a chance to escape.

Sean reflected dryly that the press would have liked to have devoured him and Jack- whole. Christians to the lions indeed. "Oh, man," Jack groaned, leaning against the door. "I'm not at all sure that being your partner is a good thing. What's next?"

"Next?" Sean asked, then grinned. "Well, I'm going to brief the night guys. Then I'm going home."

"I'm glad to hear you can do that. That you can just eat dinner, get a good night's sleep."

"I'm not too certain that I can eat dinner, or get a good night's sleep. I'm going to be as restless as a cat all night, but we've got another shift coming on, and they're good people.