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convincing himself. He had a sense of humor; Coretta had a sense of humor. Common ground. “You probably wouldn’t know it since you don’t see her much outside work, but—”
    She cut him off. “I can imagine her letting loose.”
    David struggled to remain unreadable. Letting loose was right. The woman was a damn gymnast in bed—another area where she’d made the first move. He’d been thinking dinner and a movie. She’d been thinking dinner and sex. Lots and lots of sex.
    Throughout this exchange, had Elise even blinked? Or glanced away? It came to him that this was how she cracked criminals. It also came to him that this was the method her father had been famous for back in the day, when it was said he could get anybody to confess to a crime. He’d put on his famous glasses with the blue shades, and people would spill their guts. Watching Elise, David decided the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon find himself blabbing about every position he and Coretta had tried.
    The door flew open, and their newly acquired friend with three first names burst into the room, wearing the scent of a diner, his arms loaded down with Styrofoam take-out containers, greasy paper bags, and drinks.
    “The line was a mile long,” Jay Thomas Paul said breathlessly. “But I pulled out my New York Times press ID, and some nice person let me cut in.”
    Praise the Lord and pass the sandwiches. David had never been so glad to see a reporter in his life.

CHAPTER 6
    T he city hall conference room had a vibe David could appreciate. Heavy gold curtains that went from ceiling to floor complemented pale lime walls and dark woodwork. Underfoot lay an elegant parquet, and behind the podium were flags of the United States and Georgia. In front of a bouquet of microphones, reporters jockeyed for the best spots, each one with a question or two for Mayor Burton Chesterfield.
    Chesterfield was about fifty. Old money, if David recalled correctly. The man had always reminded him a little of Bill Clinton.
    Once the mayor started talking, it was the typical bull— isolated incidents, victim knew the killer— which was exactly why David had tried to beg off the press conference, pointing out that his time would be better spent helping Detective Avery put together a task force. But Major Hoffman and Elise had insisted upon his presence, so here they all were, standing behind the mayor while the man reassured the public—people who’d voted him in and people who could vote him out—that things were under control.
    David wanted to roll his eyes, but he restrained himself, aware of the cameras and the footage that would soon be hitting local and international feeds.
    “If you aren’t the demographic, then you have nothing to worry about,” the mayor said. He went on to spew out the incorrect information that had been dumped into his brain and uploaded to the teleprompter just minutes earlier.
    When the mayor was done, his press secretary stepped forward. “We’re opening the floor for five minutes of questions,” he announced.
    Hands shot into the air. The mayor pointed. David followed the direction of his finger and shouldn’t have been surprised to see a microphone jammed in the face of Jay Thomas Paul. “And what exactly is that demographic?” the reporter asked.
    A decent question.
    While the mayor paused to formulate a reply that wouldn’t cast their fair city in a poor light, Jay Thomas continued with what David supposed could be considered a fill-in-the-blank. “Young women? Young white women?”
    “No.” The strength of that single syllable in no way reflected the shifting feet and the clenching and unclenching of hands the cameras couldn’t see. “Our city is a safe city,” the mayor insisted. “I want to reassure residents and visitors of that. At this point, the targets appear to be women involved in illegal activity. Prostitutes. Race has nothing to do with it. And after discussing