I don't care what you tell him, Captain. Ask the chief if he wants this case solved with the real murderer behind bars." The lieutenant shifted his feet slightly as he looked anxiously around the phone at the redheaded woman sitting calmly in the chair facing the front of his desk.

Reporters. Ugh. He didn't care for them. Sure, they had a job to do, but too many times reporters got in the way of him doing his job—catching a killer.

Questions flashed, one right after the other, through his mind. He tried to pay attention to his captain's bellowing, but that woman disrupted his thoughts.

What does she want? Can she hear everything I'm saying? Does she know what we're talking about?

Sure, she appeared not to be listening or paying attention to his phone call, but down deep he knew better. She was a reporter. They had their ways of getting what they wanted. Deadlines—that was all they worried about. Not the victims. Not the families. And certainly not the next casualty! That was how they got their stories, filled their papers or their magazines.

Who let her back here anyway? I'll give him a piece of my mind after I throw this woman out of here. I have enough to deal with around this place without adding unnecessary and unwanted interviews to my schedule.

His gaze stabbed in her direction but as quickly slid back to the phone in his hand. Lieutenant John Bradley didn't like discussing his latest case with the captain while that woman—that reporter—sat and listened to his every word, but right now he had no choice.

When she first arrived, he tried politely to send her on her way. It didn't work. As soon as he opened the door to his office, she rushed over to the empty chair by his desk and sat down. When the phone rang, he hinted for her to leave so he could take the call. He hoped she'd step out of his office.

But no. Instead, she smiled sweetly as she said, "No problem, Detective Bradley. I'll wait." Flipping a mass of red curls behind her shoulder, she crossed one leg over the other as she glanced around his office, as if she were interested in where he worked. She didn't fool him, not one iota.

John grumbled to himself, knowing she was hanging on his every word.

John should have thrown her out but didn't need the bad press. He resisted the urge, not knowing his boss would get into such a deep discussion of the two killings that had happened on the edge of the French Quarter while she sat across from him. His team was investigating both of the cases, and he was the lead detective on them. The New Orleans Police Department as a whole didn't need any more negative stories scripted in the paper or flashed across the news broadcasts. And he, for one, didn't want to add any more negative publicity to what they were already getting.

"John, do you hear me?" The captain's words silenced John's present thoughts of the reporter and brought his attention back to the matter at hand. "I'm pushing you, Lieutenant, because the chief is pushing me, because the commissioner is pushing him. Do I make myself clear? Get after it!" He barked his words loudly in John's ear. "Find something to link those two girls' deaths so you can find the killer. I'm sure they're connected." The captain's words grew stronger with each breath. The man wanted answers from his lead homicide detective, and he wanted them now.

Unfortunately, John didn't have the answers he needed. He wished he did. John only had more questions—but not for his captain, so the detective remained silent. If that reporter wasn't sitting there watching his every move, he'd tell his captain to back off. Insist the captain give John and his men some room to work. But seeing those green eyes locked on him, he didn't dare say a word she could take and print in her paper.

"We need a suspect, a name to give the commissioner. You got that, Bradley? Get me a suspect!"

John's knuckles whitened as he squeezed the receiver, pulling it from his ear. He felt daggers flying from his eyes as he glared at the phone.

Frustration will get you nowhere, man. Stay cool. Those words filtered through his mind as he tried to restrain his tongue. Oh, how he tried. For one second, then two. He even held it for three. His lungs filled with air as he held back his angry retort. Finally he could hold his words back no more, but at least he had enough sense to keep it from the intruder. Returning the phone to his ear, he turned his chair almost completely around, exposing his back to the reporter. Then in words spoken firmly but almost in a whisper he said, "Then hang it on some wino on Bourbon Street if it makes you feel better, Captain. But me, I want to get the real sicko behind bars and put him away for life. So get off my back, please, and let me do my job."

At least he controlled his impulse of slamming the phone down on the captain like he wanted. That was showing some restraint on his part, wasn't it? Sometimes this job got the best of him, but he knew he was a detective for a reason—to protect the innocent, to save people from becoming a victim, and to serve the public. When evil won out on the streets, his job was to find the guilty and put them away.

John regretted losing his cool with his superior as fast as it had happened. Instead of saying any more, he clenched his teeth together and waited for his captain's response.

In his ear came the sound of a long slow breath being drawn, and then a quick release of air followed. Suddenly, in sharp, choppy words the captain said, "I'm disappointed, Bradley. Apparently you're not listening to me."

John shook his head as he rose, and his pent-up breath released slowly, all the while keeping his back to the reporter. Oh, I'm listening all right. I can't help but hear you. He stretched the phone cord taut, resisting the urge to yank it out at the base. Deep within he knew he had to be straight with the captain, but he also needed some space to do his job, some privacy. That woman made it impossible for him to talk freely, so he returned to biting his tongue, almost drawing blood.

"I said find a connection. Get a lead. Something!"

John had to tell him something and make sure the reporter didn't hear a word. Swallowing hard and taking control, he spoke in a very low voice. "Sir, in the beginning the only connection we made, besides the obvious fact that both were women found strangled in the early morning hours in the same general area of the Quarter, was that they were both single. That's it. That does not connect the killings; it just gives them one more thing in common. The MO appears to be the same—so far—but we haven't ruled out copycat killers either. The papers gave too many details on the first one not to think a copycat was possible. And even though the fibers were a match on the rope, it is a typical material of a common rope found at any of your local hardware stores and chain stores. We must be able to do our job and do it thoroughly, even if it takes a little time." There. I stayed calm, kept my voice low. Hopefully Captain Stewart will get the message and back off.

"Time is something you may not have." The captain spat his words and followed it with a grunt of frustration. "So right now you have no one? No leads? No speculations?"

John sighed. "Of course we have speculations." But that wasn't enough. They needed evidence. They needed proof that backed up their speculations—not that he would share his theories now. John didn't want Miss Jaymes hearing what the department thought until they had the support to back up their speculation. The last thing he needed to see splashed across the front page of the Morning Tribune was Cop Suspected In Killings. The police could conjecture all they wanted, but they needed proof, the truth, and evidence to back up their theory.

"Spill it."

So the captain does know me. He paused for only a moment before responding. "Captain, I can only say this once, so please listen closely. There is a reporter sitting in my office, and I don't care to have my theory plastered across the headlines in the morning paper." John made sure his back was still to the reporter just in case she could read lips. He could never be too careful. In a hushed whisper he said, "We had thought of the possibility of someone dressing as a police officer, maybe even using a patrol car in order to pull these women over in the early morning hours. Why else would a woman, alone, stop at that ungodly hour in such a secluded area?"

"That sounds promising. Have you checked out your theory?" Hope rang out in the captain's voice.

"We're running it down now, sir," John said, still speaking very low. "Again, we have to be sure of all the facts before we start making claims. It takes time. So far every patrol car has been accounted for, so it's still speculation." Taking a moment to hold onto his composure, silence filled the airwaves for a moment or two, and then John said, "And although we haven't found anything connecting the victims, we're still looking for a possible connection there, too."

"John, you know what I'm telling you. I'm telling you to work harder and let's close these cases before the killer strikes again. You got it?"

Pulling the receiver away from his ear for the second time, he glared at it. Oh, yeah. I got it. Of course he got it. He got it the first time the captain said it. John wanted his cases solved as much as the commissioner, the mayor, and the governor, if not more, and for the right reasons. John wasn't up for reelection. He wanted the Quarter safe again. He didn't want to see another woman killed. John felt strongly that a madman wandered the streets of New Orleans looking for the opportunity to do it again. He had to find him quickly, and he vowed to do just that.

"That's my goal, sir." Pivoting his head slightly, he scowled at the reporter for a second, then turned back toward the wall.

* * *

If looks could kill, his certainly would do the job. Taylor watched the dark- haired detective in deep conversation with his superior. Glad that look is for his captain and not me. The reporter watched those expressive blue eyes dart her way and then as quickly avert in another direction in the room. He truly wished she wasn't there. Taylor smiled to herself. What better timing to be sitting in front of his desk than when he was talking this case over with his captain?

She wished she was privy to the whole conversation, but she only managed to catch snatches of the discussion. Unfortunately, the man kept lowering his voice, speaking softer and softer with every comment made. Taylor felt certain the exchange was about the killings. That was just what she wanted to hear him talk about, but to her, not his captain. As she strained to listen, trying to catch every word, she pretended to look around the lieutenant's office, trying not to appear interested in his dialogue.

Did she fool him? She doubted it. Unfortunately, the low hum of his computer as well as the rattle of the air conditioner worked as a great sound buffer, keeping his words from reaching her ears.

The detective's office wasn't as fancy as the lobby of the police station she'd entered from the Quarter less than half an hour ago. Taylor never would have known it was a police station when she first stepped inside the building had it not been for the cops in uniform. A couple officers stood behind the big long counter that divided the room and two more sipped coffee, discussing something of interest. Behind the two chained-off areas, one to the right and the other to the left, sat desks scattered in a fairly neat order, and behind most of them sat policemen and women. Some talked on their phones, holding deep conversations, while others typed into their computers. People off the street sat in chairs next to some of the desks. They were either reporting a crime or asking for help. A steady murmur of voices filled that room.

In her mind, she compared the differences between the outer room and the detective's office as she locked her ears on him, listening for any clue to the two deaths on the edge of the Quarter.

The police station's lobby had high ceilings edged with triple crown molding and intricate corners covered with elaborate carvings of small statuettes. Five crystal-looking chandeliers adorned the great room, keeping it well lit if she remembered correctly. As a reporter, she was trained to observe and remember things. Pristine white covered the walls while a sea of soft blue carpet covered the floors. Not the typical police station, but in New Orleans, especially in the French Quarter, not too many things were typical.

Detective Bradley's office, however, except for the high ceiling, was a normal cluttered detective's workplace. Papers covered his desk, each in small stacks neatly scattered on the surface. Oops. Maybe it wasn't so normal after all—too neat. Her eyes rescanned the room. Several file folders stuffed with more papers were piled in one orderly stack on the corner of the desk, and an almost-empty styrofoam cup of coffee perched within arm's reach to the right side of the papers in the file folder he had open—his right side, her left. Dark gray file cabinets lined the short length of the back wall in the small office, making the room seem even smaller.

A strange neatness in this clutter made his office highly unusual in her opinion—at least by comparison to the cop shops she normally had the pleasure of viewing. Those offices always sat in disarray.

Definitely different.

Slowly Detective John Bradley pulled the phone back to his ear as he swiveled slightly back around, almost facing frontwards. In a restrained voice he replied, "Yes, sir. I understand. Yes. Yes. No, sir."

His words were still of no help. The reporter sat in the straight-backed chair across from his desk, her ears straining. She struggled hard to hear every detail of the one-sided conversation. Unfortunately it wasn't much.

Taylor knew what he was discussing—the two murders on the edge of the Quarter—and whom he was discussing them with. That subject matter was precisely why she was there. What she did hear him say, she already knew. She'd give anything to have heard what he said when he lowered his voice after he turned his back on her. Those words would have given her more insight as to what had been discovered so far. But since she was not allowed to hear the conversation in its entirety, she wished the detective would get off the phone and give her his undivided attention.

The detective's voice returned to normal as he said, "We're checking all our leads. As soon as we have something conclusive, you'll be the first to know." Swiveling the rest of the way facing his desk, he slammed down the phone.

She heard that. The captain would be the first to know anything new. Of course. Now, however, she wanted the detective to tell her what leads they were following and what they were suspecting ... anything she could share with her readers.

Releasing a long pent-up breath, he lifted his deep blue gaze and locked it with hers. "Miss Jaymes, what is it you want? As you can see, I'm a busy man." His jaw jerked as he stared down at the papers in front of him.

Agitation radiated from the detective. The tone he used while talking to his captain gave her the distinct impression she wasn't going to get much from this man, but she had to try. That was her job.

"Like I was saying before your phone call, Detective Bradley, I'm Taylor Jaymes, a reporter with the Morning Tribune. I'm doing a follow-up piece on the two victims that were found strangled in the past two weeks. Have the police determined if they were connected or not? From your conversation, what little I overheard, I gather you can't tell me that yet, but maybe you could tell me something else. You do realize it has almost been another week since the last killing? If it is a serial killer, there may be another murder in the next night or two. Now would you care to comment? Is there something you'd like to share with the public?" Taylor held her pen poised, ready to take action. She would have used her recorder to get it precise, but this lieutenant didn't allow recordings in his office. Only when he was giving his press releases could reporters record him.

The detective's inquisitive blue eyes moved slowly over Taylor's face. She felt a slight tingle as he scanned her head to toe. His dark brows drew together as a frown fashioned on his shapely lips. Taylor was torn between admiring his striking looks and figuring out what he was thinking about her as he checked her out thoroughly.

She didn't have to wonder long about that questioning look. His gaze pinned her as he leaned back in his chair. Softly, he said, "You're the reporter who almost died about five months ago when tracking that string of burglaries in the jewelry shops on and around Canal Street, aren't you?"

Taylor felt her face light up as she moved her hand gently to her chest. She loved it when someone recognized her work or her name. Of course, she would have much preferred he remembered the great string of articles she wrote instead of how she got too close and almost lost her life getting the story. "Well, a good reporter goes where the story leads and doesn't worry about the pain she must suffer to get it."