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so he’d taken to refer to her
as Princess Jane, a pretty name for a pretty lady, much prettier in
any case than Jane Doe.
    Jane’s hospital file (one of his guys
had swindled a copy from a friendly nurse) hadn’t helped. Without
even being sure it was hers, he had run fucking DNA tests with
samples taken at the apartment but hadn’t got a hit. To be sure, he
should have taken a lock of her hair at the hospital, but he had
not. Illegal. Yah right.
    The real reason was, Je hadn’t
thought of taking a sample then. She had looked damn helpless in
the white hospital bed; he hadn’t thought she would run then. He
knew better now. Next time, Princess, you’re
mine.
    Twice he had underestimated her. More
than twice actually. A couple of times at the bar, then at the
apartment, in the living room and later, in the bedroom. Amazing
woman. No signs of her and so many questions left unanswered. Why
was she with the killer?
    Je had interrogated the killer woman,
but the bitch kept changing her version of the events every two
days until the Court lawyers pulled him off the case. Abuse of
power my ass, the murderess had been going at it all over the
country. They might never know just how many she had killed. From
what he had seen when she had tried to do him, she enjoyed killing
a hell of a lot.
    Fucking Central had sent him to therapy
after. Post-traumatic shock they called it. Assholes. It wasn’t his
close encounter with the serial killer that unnerved him, not his
first, not his last, all part of the job. No, it was the woman, his
Jane. He had wanted her that night and the fuck if he didn’t want
her still.
    The killer wouldn’t give him a straight
answer, but he was not a fucking detective for nothing. From what
he had gathered at the apartment and at the bar where she had
killed her last two victims, then at the hotel where she had killed
the two before, the murderess worked alone.
    He talked to the shrinks like Central
had asked. Not therapy, screw them, but investigation. Could a
nymphomaniac serial killer switch from men to women? Some said yes,
most said no.
    He had seen how much the killer was
aroused on that night, but by what, or by whom? Her impending kill?
Him as a male? Because her female companion Jane had so obviously
aroused him? By Jane herself? By the presence of a female witness?
A female participant? A potential female victim? What? He also knew
without a doubt Princess Jane had not enjoyed any of the bedroom
play, far from it. Looking back, he had the feeling he had been the
bait but for whom?
    He didn’t have much to go on, only her
physical description. Tallish. Lithe. Stunning. Even with those
ridiculous glasses she had put on. Shy. Damn he liked when she
blushed. Smart. Delicate. Strong. Damn sexy.
    The bathtub hacker dude was a welcome
distraction; the case would help keep his mind off Princess
Jane.
    Excerpt from PI Unlimited , by Trica C. Line
     

Her Cold
C ase
    A new file awaited her
when she returned to the precinct: a
two-year-old murder case of a twenty-three-year-old student
waitress. Depressing.
    Cold
case research was the primary albeit
unofficial reason of her presence in Christopher’s office, although
her personal file stated she was a filing clerk. And why wouldn’t
it? The HR guys had no imagination, and they wouldn’t have known
what to do with her had she said she was doing research for
possible female PI-slash-cop stories.
    At the time
of her death , the student-waitress was
down to her last year of economics at the University and worked at
a diner part-time. The murderer had knocked her dead in the back
alley of the diner on a Sunday night. Since the place was closed on
Mondays, the victim was found only the following Tuesday morning,
in a dumpster. It had rained for days; the police had found no
useful evidence. No clues. No enemies.
    H er family loved her; her school
friends and her co-workers appreciated her. Except for the killing
strike, the police did not find any signs