Kathleen Creighton - Danger Signals

"Officer Williams's traffic citations that fit the 'profile.' And that's just for the last month." Washburn said.

Ochoa chimed in, "Evidently, the majority of traffic miscreants tend to fall into the category of young single males. Go figure."

Wade cut the stack of citations like a deck of cards and handed one to each of the detectives. "Okay, start running 'em down. See who's in the system for something worse than a traffic ticket. Check out the addresses. Check everything. See if anything jumps out. We're looking at somebody who's probably been in trouble as a juvenile. Maybe foster care."

Ochoa and Washburn looked at each other. Washburn, the comedian, said. "Job would go a lot faster if we split the pile three ways, boss."

Wade, who was already turning to his computer, swiveled back to glower at the pair, then gave an impatient "gimme" wave. "Okay, divvy up. I got something else to take care of first, though. Might take me a while…"

Wade waited until the two detectives had each slapped down a wad of citations and had gone off looking pleased with themselves, then brought up the Google screen, typed in "Cory Pearson journalist" and hit Search.

"Oh, Cory-you actually met him?" His wife's voice on the phone sounded choked-up, which naturally made his throat do the same.

"Yep," he said, grinning like an idiot. "I introduced myself and everything. Didn't mention the part about us being brothers, though."

There was a pause, and then. "You told him your name? Was that wise?"

"Well, I guess we'll see. I wanted-I don't know, I guess I was hoping it might jog a memory loose."

"Yes, but like you said, he's a cop. They're suspicious by nature. What if he decides to check you out?"

"Good-let him. Maybe that will bring something back. Although I'm not sure he's going to have a lot of time to devote to looking into my background, with this serial murder investigation they've got going here."

"I heard about that," Sam said. "It's made the national news."

"Yes," Cory said sadly. "Serial killings always do."

"Speaking of killing…" Sam's voice sounded sorrowful. "Your office called. Seems Beirut's exploded again. They want you there-yesterday."

He swore inventively, raked fingers through his hair and closed his eyes.

"He's not going anywhere, Pearse," his wife said gently. You know who he is and where he is. He'll still be there when you get back."

"Yeah, okay, you're right," he said on a long exhalation.

But he was a journalist who'd seen more of sudden death and young lives cut short than most people would in several lifetimes. Enough to know that what his wife had said wasn't always true.

The rest of the week passed the way Tierney's days always did. She tended the gallery, painted when she could, spent time picking up after Jeannette. And something new: tried not to think of Wade.

She thought about Wade a lot. There had been no more torture killings, and so no word from him. for which she was grateful on several counts-besides the obvious. She needed all the time she could squeeze out of every day to paint, getting ready for the Rose Festival. Or so she told herself. And she didn't like to leave Jeannette alone so much-she told herself that, too. Both of those things were true, but her biggest and best reason for being glad Wade hadn't called her-other than natural relief that no more women had suffered hideous deaths at the hands of a monster-was because she so badly wanted him to.

Although, why she should want to see him ever again was a mystery to her, after the way their picnic lunch at the Rose Gardens had ended.

She'd known immediately the erotic impressions she'd picked up were his-of course she had. And that she was the object of them-she'd known that, too. The feelings had been strong, clear and explicit, and as feelings like that did sometimes, they'd actually formed images in her mind. It wasn't the first time she'd picked up sexual fantasies involving her from men, and even, on a couple of occasions, from women. What was different about this time, and so unsettling to her, was the way she'd responded to them.

To him.

Usually when she picked up something blatantly sexual, she would throw up a mental block, remind herself it was normal and human to have such feelings, and ignore them. But this time… How had she let it happen? Had her guard been down? Or was it because she was attracted to him already? She tried not to ask herself those questions because every time she did it all came back-the way her heart had picked up his slow, heavy, sultry beat. The way the heat had spread through her body like lava, sizzling beneath her skin and settling in the lowest parts of her so that she felt both weighted and restless at the same time. The way she'd longed… ached…needed to be touched.

It had been a long time since she'd been touched that way.

Once in a while, she'd let Why not? cross her mind like a mouse making a daring dash over open floor.

But…no. The time wasn't right, and neither was he. A cop? Bad enough, as terrible at relationships as they were known to be. And this one with those missing pieces, missing memories, and skeletons in his closet even he didn't know about? No.

And besides that, there was Jeannette, who needed her more and more every day. These days Tierney had to help her grandmother with nearly everything, from getting dressed in the morning to going to bed at night. And in between there was the constant vigilance necessary to keep Jeannette from wandering off. hurting herself or setting the apartment on fire. Tierney had learned, sometimes the hard way, to keep anything that might cut, stab, poison, ignite, kindle, break, fall or tip over hidden or put away out of her grandmother's reach. Electrical outlets were covered by furniture that couldn't be easily moved, or taped over with duct tape. The knobs for the stove burners were hidden in a high cupboard, and all cupboard doors and drawers containing objects that might be dangerous or broken were locked with childproof fasteners. Windows and doors were kept locked, and the water heater was turned down to low.

But far, far worse than all that was losing the essential person that was Jeannette. Every day the shining light that had been her personality grew dimmer. Every day Tierney could feel the special link that had always been there between them becoming thinner, like a rubberband stretching…stretching. One day, she knew-probably soon-that bond would snap, and nothing would ever be able to put it back together. Her grandmother would be gone. Forever.

Sometimes, Tierney just had to go somewhere -the bathroom, or her workroom, or maybe the car-so she could cry.

No, this wasn't the time to be thinking about love, or even sex. And certainly not Wade.

As the days continued to roll by with no new victims. Wade and the other members of the TK-Torture Killer- Task Force grew more and more edgy. On the one hand, of course, everyone was relieved not to have to deal with another woman's brutalized body. But no new victims meant no new leads, no chance for new evidence or even, please Lord, a witness. And worse than that was the growing fear that the killer might have slipped through their fingers.

Since the news conference, the media had been all over what they'd delighted in calling the department's "crystal ball." So far Wade had managed to keep Tierney's home address secret, but there'd been plenty of attention paid by both newspapers and television to cases she'd been involved with in the past, and law enforcement's use of psychics in general. It was his greatest fear that the killer might have gotten the wind up, gotten scared, gone to ground, or-worst case scenario-moved on, not to be heard from again until someday, in another part of the country, in another city, another town, women began dying.