She was silent a moment. "Yes. Sean Canady."

He was quiet, then said carefully, "He's a good cop."

"Why do you say that so carefully?"

He hesitated again. "Well, there was some trouble right here in New Orleans-"

"I remember it! Those gruesome murders."

"Well, we've had lots of gruesome murders, but these were really specific. Sean had a lot to do with solving them, and then again, there was a lot that went unanswered and unsolved."

"You sound as if you don't trust him." "It's not that I don't trust him, it's just that..."

"What?"

"I just think you might want to keep away from him. He could add fuel to the fire of past fears and ... well, he's good guy. Just.. .just maybe not good for you right now."

She didn't answer. "So you're heading back to the morgue?"

"Then home again. I can hardly stand up."

"You should tell them that. You shouldn't have to work when you're that sick."

"Well, you've got to realize, the cop powers that be don't often care if we make each other sick as h.e.l.l-they can't afford to. We have to worry about the general public we protect and serve, but I can hardly pa.s.s anything to the kid now," he said his tone even but with a sense of sadness beneath. "Forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" she murmured, confused by the sound of his voice.

"For what?"

"For ... for being entirely worthless."

"You're not at all worthless. There's nothing to forgive."

"You're just about the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Same to you, Rick," she said softly. "Call me tomorrow."

"Will do."

She hung the phone up slowly, curious that she felt...

Relieved.

No, I'm not relieved, she told herself.

But I am.

She suddenly wished she had asked Shanna where she was going.

She could have shown up and seen this new man who might be entering her sister's life.

She went back to the dining room table where they had been working on the pumpkins, finished picking up the mess they had made, then took the pumpkins one by one and dried them out.

When she finished, she decided to put votive candles in the jack-o'- lanterns, and see how they looked.

Hers was okay, spooky enough once it was lit.

Shanna's pumpkin looked downright evil.

"Those are pointed teeth, little sister!" she mused aloud. The pumpkin made her acutely uncomfortable. To her amazement, she found herself afraid. She blew out the candles and she set both pumpkins out on the brick balcony wall.

Coming back inside the apartment she loved so much, she realized that she felt very restless, and that she didn't want to stay home. She could hear music from the street below, and laughter. Someone was having an early Halloween party.

You're not invited!

But this was her city, and she knew it. She didn't need a party to go out. The French Quarter was beautiful, and she knew the shopkeepers in her neighborhood, and the waiters at the coffee houses, and the bartenders at the lounges.

She'd just go out for a drink or a coffee.

She brushed her hair, grabbed a jacket, and headed out. A long walk alone might be just what she needed.

Terry Broom was young, fairly new to his job at the medical examiner's office. He'd been hired by the head coroner, Pierre LePont, he had shown LePont his findings, and LePont had told him to bring in the Homicide cops.

Terry was six feet tall, very thin, and had a freckled face and wild red hair. He was only a few years out of school- although he was greatly relieved to be able to say that he had turned thirty.

Still young compared to the more experienced doctors here, but he knew his stuff.

He had always been at the top of his cla.s.s. He had learned from a doctor in Gainesville, Florida, who had had such a pa.s.sion for his work that he had all but branded it into his students.

A medical examiner was really a victim's last great hope.

An M.E. cut into the dead and violated the body. That had to be done with the greatest respect.

And done with every effort to bring a killer to justice, or to put a terrible accident to rest.

This time Terry had nearly been fooled by what had appeared to be obvious.

Gla.s.s everywhere. Huge chunks of gla.s.s, shards of gla.s.s.

Cuts everywhere ... It was easy to see how going straight through the windshield might cause such tragic damage to a human being.

But since he had first examined the body, something had disturbed Terry. Something beyond the obvious.

So now, with skeptical cops encircling him, he nodded at Daniel, a motion that told his even younger a.s.sistant that they were ready for the sheet to be drawn back.

Daniel, looking very green, nodded in turn. The body seemed more horrible each time he viewed it.

The cops didn't move. They didn't joke. No one mentioned that it was Friday night, or that they were dying for their dinner, or cracked any kind of comment at all. They all stood still and stared.

Terry touched the gap at the corpse's throat with a gloved finger.

"If you'll observe my concern ... I don't think that even the violence and force of the young man going through the windshield could cause these serrations," Terry explained.

He looked up. They were all staring at him. Lieutenant Canady was one of them. His partner, Jack Delaney, was at his side. The huge black cop was there, too, the third guy on Canady's team. His name was Mike Astin, and he was new to Homicide, though he had been with the force for some time. Across from them, on the other side of the gurney, were Gavin Newton and his partner, Al Harding- funny name for the man.

The two cops were often referred to as Laurel and Harding-a play on words neither appreciated.

The sixth cop wasn't from Homicide. Rick Beaudreaux worked kids, drugs, and public relations.

He worked with the families.

He was the one who would have to explain this death to the boy's relatives-and to the press.

Rick Beaudreaux had a cold. He kept trying not to sneeze. He looked even greener than the other men. He was probably going to vomit soon.

In fact, he looked almost as bad as the corpse.

"Serrations?" Canady said gravely.

Terry Broom pointed again. "You could have such a deep wound with that kind of force, but you see the flesh here...." He hesitated, trying to point out the ragged edges of the flesh. "This you get by the gla.s.s going back and forth."

He felt frustrated, not sure whether they didn't understand, or whether they were a bit green because they did.

He sighed. "You see how it's like cut meat, like a steak? You get this kind of tearing by a knife-or sharp object- going back and forth, grating there, ripping the flesh-"

"We see." Sean interrupted quietly.

Rick Beaudreaux turned around, staggering out. He was going to be sick.

The other cops made no comment.

"Sorry," Terry said quietly.

"Rick has one h.e.l.l of a fever going, but I 'm pretty sure he understands what you're showing us," Canady said, then continued brusquely, "So, the kid was already dead when he went through the windshield?"

"Yes, that's right. That's what I believe." He hesitated, hoping that they trusted his expertise. "I've shown all this to LePont as well. His opinion concurs with mine."

"But how ... ?" Al Harding began.

"He was killed, put into the car, and the car was either driven by someone else into the tree, or sent crashing into the tree," Sean Canady said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"But that doesn't make any sense-" Gavin began.

"Actually," Jack Delaney muttered, "it would make perfect sense if you were a murderer who wanted to get away with murder."

"But he was already dead, then sent through a windshield-and nearly decapitated with the gla.s.s from the windshield?" Harding queried.

"By someone using the shattered gla.s.s as a knife-to serrate,"

Canady said. "Is that it, Dr. Broom? Is that what you believe?"

Terry Broom looked at him, hoping that Canady was seeing past his freckles. "I know how it sounds, but ..." Canady was looking into his eyes. "Yes," he said flatly. "If you doubt my abilities or my findings-"

"I don't doubt them at all," Canady said. He looked at the others surrounding the body. "Well, gentlemen, it's definitely a homicide."

"It's going to be one h.e.l.l of a homicide to solve," Al Harding said, shaking his gaunt head. "The kid was scared, though."

"I doubt if we can even begin to imagine right now just how scared," Canady muttered. Then he turned sharply and started out. At the door he paused, turning back. "I've heard the kid had a rap sheet, that he was kind of a rabble-rouser. Drinker, pusher, user. The newspaper articles used the name the kid had been going by. Did you get the court papers back yet so we can release his real name?" he inquired.

"Yeah, I got them back." Terry Broom looked at the kid's chart and answered him.

Canady suddenly looked worse than Beaudreax as he lowered his head and exited the room.

October meant party time in New Orleans.

Not as much as February. Fat Tuesday and Mardi Gras were the real celebrations. But New Orleans loved a good excuse for a costume party anytime. There were haunted houses open in various parts of the city, some run by charitable organizations and offering the talents of local drama students and teachers, and some open for the sheer pleasure of the profit to be made, and featuring fabulous costumes and world-cla.s.s entertainment.

Then there were the usual attractions.

bathe a beauty for a buck, one window advertised.

PURE MALE AGILITY-MALE POLE DANCERS, advertised another.

A strip joint sat next to a toy store. A cappuccino/bookstore was next to a historical and respectable hotel on one side, and a s.e.x-toy shop on the other. Jazz played on two corners. A handsome black man and a coffee-colored woman played spoons and sang on the street. A young drunk b.u.mped Jade's shoulder and apologized profusely. She escaped him as quickly as she could-she was in danger of being entirely doused with his beer as he begged her pardon.

She slipped into Drake's, a neighborhood sports bar a bit off the beaten track. Derrick Clayton, the owner and Friday-night bartender, was an old friend from high school. He'd married one of her best friends, Sally Eaton, and every time she went in he had new pictures of their three-year-old daughter and infant son. Jade admired his kids, and he told her how proud of her all her old hometown buddies were, what with making a go not just of her journalism, but her own publishing company.

"Hey, Derrick!" she called, taking a stool at the end of the bar. There was no big game tonight, and though televisions were playing around the bar, no sound could be heard from them. There was a great-if strange-Irish jazz band playing.

Derrick waved at her, finished with the beer he was pouring, delivered it, and came to the end of the bar. "Hey, gorgeous." He was a big man with curling brown hair, a red hint to his beard, and a curve to his belly. He looked as if he belonged climbing a mountain, fighting off bears.

"Hey, yourself." She leaned forward, kissing the cheek he offered her. "Got any new pictures?"

"Always. You know I'll make you see them. What are you drinking?"

"Black and tan," she told him. "In honor of the band."

"They're something, huh?"

"They're great. I've never heard bagpipe jazz before."