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killer might be responsible.”
    “Serial killer! Now, who’s been—”
    “Lieutenant Doyle, we really need to get going,” Kelly said sharply. The blonde’s attention flicked over to her, taking inventory, and her eyes narrowed.
    “Excuse me, ma’am, which unit are you with? Are you part of the task force?” Jan asked, shoving her microphone forward.
    Kelly ignored her, and Doyle finally eased the car forward. Jan stepped back as he drove away.
    “What the hell was that?” Kelly asked through gritted teeth.
    “Just issuing a statement to the press,” Doyle said without taking his eyes off the rearview mirror.
    “Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Monica asked.
    Kelly repressed a sigh and sank back into her seat. In a parallel universe she’d be lying on a beach right now drinking a piña colada, not babysitting these two. She could already tell this was going to be a long case.
    Dwight’s leg jiggled nervously as he tapped out a cadence on the bar with his fingers, humming along to the jukebox. Before I was born, late one night, my papa said everything’s all right… Catchy tune, “Hand Jive”; he’d always liked it.
    Charlie the bartender shuffled over and squinted at his arm. “Looks like you got a new tat.”
    Dwight glowed at the attention, held his arm up and tilted it forward to catch the light emanating from the TV set. “Yup, got it done yesterday.” The letters were black, the skin around them an angry red. The tattoo stood out in bold relief against his pale skin, squeezed into the space between a Navy Seal logo and a Coast Guard skiff.
    Charlie leaned forward and peered at it. “CIA, huh? So you got in?”
    “Just going through the final security check,” Dwight answered proudly, missing the dubious tone of voice. “You know, to get top clearance takes a while. They gotta talk to everyone—Ma, the guys at work, maybe even you.” Something suddenly occurred to Dwight, and he leaned forward eagerly. “Hey, anyone come by asking questions about me?”
    Charlie slowly shook his head, avoiding his eyes. “Not on my shift.”
    “That’s all right.” He waved an arm and settled back on his stool, took a big gulp of tepid tap beer. “Sure they’ll be in soon.”
    “Sure they will,” Charlie said. “Hey, you should probably keep that covered, first few days after inking it can get infected.”
    Dwight ignored him, distracted by what was happening onscreen. On the television a chopper was circling a line of searchers barely visible through the trees. The camera cut back to the blond reporter who looked like she had a real pole up her ass. Her pursed lips murmured silently into the microphone.
    “Hey, Charlie, hit the volume, would ya?”
    The bartender followed his gaze, grunted and reached up to press the button. The blonde’s voice, sharp as her looks, gradually increased in volume but was periodically drowned out by the jukebox.
    “…no word yet on…task force has arranged to meet…more developments later…”
    The station cut back to the anchors, sitting at their usual cheap-ass plywood desk. Terrible studio set they had, they’d been using the same one since the seventies. “Any word, Jan…dealing with a…”
    Jan’s head was cocked to the side, her expression of concern as carefully tailored as her suit. She listened as the other anchor uttered the words Dwight had been waiting to hear.
    “Police won’t confirm or deny, but all indications are that’s exactly what…”
    The bartender shook his head. “You believe that? A freakin’ serial killer, here?”
    Dwight smiled into his beer. “Yeah, I believe it. Lot of sick fucks in the world, Charlie.”
    “Sure are,” the bartender agreed. “Good thing the season’s almost over. Hate to think what this’ll do to business.”
    Dwight stood, slid the pile of pennies he’d been playing with off the counter and into his pocket, then dug out a five and slid it across the bar. “Yeah, time to get