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up.” Ellen sounded hurt.
    So, Tess hadn’t told her everything either. That wasn’t like her—since grade school they’d shared all their secrets.
    Jill cleared her throat. “What about men?”
    “There’s no one special, least I don’t think so. Wait a minute—there was a guy who came here a few times to work on video projects with her. Don’t think she ever dated him.”
    “Do you know his name?”
    “I’m trying to remember.” Ellen clicked her tongue against the bridge of her mouth several times, as she often did when perplexed. “He was an older guy, maybe in his late-thirties.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Dark brown hair, brooding mysterious eyes.” Ellen paused. “You know the type, far too good looking to trust completely.”
    “Think, Ellen, I need a name.”
    Ellen wrinkled her brow. “Uh, Don...Dave...something like that. I believe his last name was Kent...like Superman...no, it started with a C.” Ellen picked up Tess’ address book and thumbed through it. “Here it is—Dane Clark.”
    “Dane Clark!” Jill’s heart beat faster. At another time, she might have laughed at Ellen’s Superman-connection. But not now. Ellen’s description of Dane was overly dramatic, but she was right. The newspaperman was a compellingly attractive man and probably more dangerous than either of them could imagine. Her face warmed with outrage. The worldly reporter had no business fooling around with her less experienced nineteen-year-old sister. “I need to borrow Tess’ address book. Someone listed there might know where she is.”
    “I dunno...”
    “Come on, Ellen. Under the circumstances, she won’t mind.”
    A shiver slid down Jill’s spine. Better angry than dead.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Jill drove toward The Jester’s Motel, strongly aware of the matchbook in her pocket. How had her sister landed in the middle of a case that spanned three states?
    At first, the killings had been spread over such a large area that the police hadn’t known the man they were after was a serial killer. It wasn’t until he’d turned careless or lazy and murdered eight women in one city, all models, that they put it together.
    Then the senseless slaughter crossed the Nevada state line into Utah. That was when she’d been brought into the case and attached to a special FBI unit. She’d been promoted to second in command because of her expertise in tracking and dealing with the psychotic mind. The snuff case was a tough assignment; but the tougher the case, she’d always told herself, the deeper the satisfaction when it was over.
    Jill stopped at a red light and glanced at the distinguished-looking man in the Mercedes next to her. He gave her an admiring once over. What would he think if he knew he was flirting with an FBI psychologist? Most men ran in the other direction after they learned she worked for the Bureau.
    So what? Her work was enough. Or at least it would have to be until she found a man she could trust, who was secure enough in his own life to accept hers. Since it was unlikely that she’d find someone like that soon, she didn’t think about it much. With her schedule, who had time for men anyway? It had taken years of sacrifice and hard work to get the necessary experience and training. To get the background she needed to deal with psychopaths like the Snuff Video Killer, she’d graduated with a bachelor’s in science with a specialization in behavioral psychiatry, followed by the basics in law school and med school work. Opening her own practice had been an early dream. What had happened to it?
    Jill didn’t realize how hard she was pressing down on the gas pedal until she skidded wide into the curve.
    She slowed.
    On the next rise she caught a glimpse of the lights of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. She descended the hill onto a short stretch of freeway, then merged into thin city traffic. Ahead, the Jester’s Motel vacancy sign blinked in bright, bold red letters. It