Darkness of the Soul - Part 2


     Nick walked into the loft and dropped the keys on the table. It
had been a long night. Murder was ugly, but it was uglier when
everybody involved seemed to have so few redeeming qualities. And
Liz, as well as Harold, had very few. After leaving the Margulies'
residence, Nick and Tracy had spent what was left of the night
building a profile of Liz and Harold.
     Their business practices were barely legitimate at times.
Neither was well liked personally from what Nick could tell. Not a
pleasant couple at all. Nick could still hear Tracy's comments
ringing in his ears . . . 

     *Tracy had leaned over her desk, and after looking around,
whispered conspiratorially, "I told you. She might have given a lot
of money and time to charity, but she _was not_ a charitable person.
She did it for glory and power. Yuk! I bet everybody she worked with
hated her."
     Nick dropped the printout he'd been reading about her
organization and leaned back in his chair. "That's probably a bit
broad, Trace. We know that at least Harold liked her."
     Tracy wrinkled her nose. "Okay. But he's the same way. Steps on
people, uses them, tells them one thing to their face, and says
something else behind their back. Lies about them to clients, and
undermines them for personal gain. You can bet they didn't win any
popularity polls. I shouldn't say it, but she . . ."
     "Then don't," Nick suggested. "Nobody ever deserves to end like
that."
     Tracy bit her lip. "Sorry. It's just that it reminds me of this
girl I knew in college, and as much as I tried, I couldn't like her.
She did such awful things and hurt so many. She's the only person I
think I really truly disliked--maybe even hated. And it bothers me to
this day. I'd like to think I'm better than that. I learned all that
stuff in Sunday School--you know, turn the other cheek, do good to
them that despitefully use you, love your enemies--and when it came
right down to it, I couldn't do it. It still bugs me."
     Tracy leaned back in her chair and stared at her hands. "You
think you've put it behind you, and something like this happens, and
wham--there it is again, right in your face. And you want to do
violent things." She looked at Nick. "I thought you were supposed to
get smarter with age."*

     Nick abruptly pulled open the fridge on that thought, and after
a moment's hesitation, reached to the back and pulled out the "good"
stuff. Impatiently he pulled the cork out with his teeth, spat it out
and upended the bottle, letting the blood slide down his throat.
Before he stopped, half the bottle was gone. He stared at, but didn't
see the bottle as his mind traveled to another time and place . . . 

                                 ###

*New York, 1960 *
     The bistro was small and dark, and the air was heavy with the
smell of deep, rich coffees pollinated with wine and liqueurs.
Excited conversations burst and bubbled here and there among the
occupants.
     Nick sat behind the grand piano, his reflection melding into the
glossy satin finish as he played. His eyes were closed as he played
the timeless Gershwin tune. Tonight, the jazz slid seamlessly out of
the piano, brought to life under his gifted hands and the full-bodied
sound of the piano. At the moment, it was "Rhapsody in Blue," and
Nick was completely lost in it. But as with all good music it came to
an end, and he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings once
again.
     What they took in was Allen Fitzgerald, leaning on the piano,
watching Nick with amused intensity.
     "Where do you go, Nick," Allen asked with laughter bubbling up
in his eyes, "when you play like that? D'you have any idea how good
you are? If I had even a quarter of your talent, Nick, I'd be playing
in Carnegie Hall."
     "Don't you mean you'd have a Pulitzer?" Nick asked, letting his
fingers glide softly over the keys unconsciously. "You don't play the
piano."
     "Don't change the subject," Allen retorted with a grin. "You're
always doing that, you know. Changing the subject. You do that a lot.
I'm beginning to wonder, why is that? I've never met anyone less
interested in talking about himself--or developing such incredible
talent."
     Nick smiled. "I guess I have no ambition, what can I say?"
     Allen snorted and took a sip from his Irish whiskey. "Yeah,
right. When pigs fly. My brother plays, but you know that. Hell, I've
said this before. I watched him practice his whole life. He gave it
everything he had, and he's still not as good as you are. I know what
it takes to be that good--and if that isn't ambition, I don't know
what is."
     Nick stared at the keyboard for a moment, and then looked up
into Allen's eyes. For a moment there was a flicker of some
undefinable emotion across Nick's face, and then it was gone. Allen
saw it, but wasn't sure what it represented. Nick was a hard man to
figure out.
     Nick looked at him in amusement, and raised an eyebrow. "How
about a passion for music? Plain and simple."
     "Passion maybe," Allen retorted. "Plain and simple, not a
chance." Allen relented and left off the full-court attack. Nick was
not going to rise to the challenge. It was odd, because Nick was one
of the most emotional men Allen had ever met, and yet it was combined
with iron control. He wondered what Nick would be like if he let it
loose . . . 
     "So what brings you in, tonight?" Nick asked.
     Allen's face went still for a moment. "That obvious, huh?"
     Nick looked at him for a moment. "It's almost midnight. It has
to be something, or else you'd still be sitting up in your office,
racing to beat the deadline and get your copy to press."
     Allen grinned. "You know me pretty well, huh?"
     "Well, I know your habits, anyway," Nick retorted.
     "Yeah. Well. The editor partnered me with Jake Farley today.
Jake . . . Farley. Hell. He might as well just've had me executed.
I'm still trying to figure out what I did to deserve that. I might as
well just kiss my ass goodbye. That guy chews people up and spits 'em
out like they're yesterday's news.
     "I hate to say it, but that is one guy I do not like. I don't
trust him as far as I can spit, and if I was a cop, I'd be watching
my back to see if I could catch him in the act of shooting me. But
I'm not a cop. I'm a reporter, and this guy has just lined me up in
his sights." Allen sighed and stared down into his drink.

                                 ###

     Nick stared at his drink, and then shook his head. Tracy's words
had hit a raw nerve, indeed. His thoughts were disrupted by the
elevator's groan as it started a creaky ascent.
     Nick looked at his drink, guiltily. He'd bypassed the latest
protein shake on his way to the bottle of blood LaCroix had left
here. His screw-ups almost always coincided with Natalie's visits to
the loft. He was tempted to try and do a vampire-speed run to hide
the evidence but decided it was useless. Natalie would take one look
at him, another at the fridge and know anyway. His shoulders slumped
a bit in defeat. There was no way he could deceive her about this.
She'd been observing him too long and knew him too well.
     Natalie slid the door back and stepped into the loft, her arms
filled with packages.
     Nick, his forehead wrinkling in amused puzzlement, moved to her
side.
     "Can I take something, Nat?" he asked.
     "Yeah. Here," Natalie said and handed him a bag emitting a hot,
greasy odor of fries and hamburger. Ketchup, too, he thought as he
sniffed. It made him feel a little sick. He was just a bit too close
to all that . . . food.
     She dumped her purse on the table and wrestled her way out of
her coat and hat as Nick put the bag on the counter and started
looking for a plate.
     The stillness warned him that Natalie had seen the evidence.
Nick turned around to find her eyes riveted on the bottle sitting in
lonely state in the middle of the table. He decided it must be a new
record for figuring out he'd screwed up.
     Natalie slowly raised her glance to meet Nick's. "What
happened?" she asked calmly. Nick was sure it was the calm before the
storm.
     After a moment, Nick shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. It's
not a brutal murder. But something about it just sent me to the back
of the fridge. These people are all ugly. And I guess I felt ugly,
too."
     Nat pinned him with an incriminating look.
     "I don't know, Nat. I don't. There's no excuse."
     "No, there isn't. Nick, what is going on with you? Lately, it
seems like you aren't even trying. Have you even touched the shake?"
     Nick shook his head without meeting her look.
     Natalie looked away and slowly rubbed her neck. It was all
slipping away. She could feel it. She was beginning to wonder how
long it would be before Nick gave up entirely, or before he left.
He'd come close once already this year, and Natalie felt fear shimmy
through her. She didn't think she wanted to know how it would feel to
face a world in which there wasn't any chance of seeing Nick. And
yet . . . 
     "I don't know what to say, Nick," Natalie said. "If you're not
going to try, why should I?"
     Nick moved quickly to her side. "Nat. It isn't that . . ."
     "Then what is it, Nick? Because I feel like I'm in this alone
again. We've already been through this."
     "I know, Nat. And it isn't that. I do try, and I do care. But I
told you, remember? I told you that I'd been set back a bit. Well, I
think it's a lot more than a bit. I *need* the blood, Natalie. And
when I have a tough night, I need it more. It's that or go down to
the Raven, Nat. And I don't want to go there."
     Natalie flinched at what that implied and then met Nick's eyes.
He was honest, at least about that. They stared at each other for
seemingly timeless moments, and then Natalie took a breath. "Would
vampire blood ease the need?"
     Nick's eyes flickered away briefly. "Yes and no." He didn't
elaborate, and Natalie didn't ask.
     She took another breath. "Well, now that you've had the high-fat
appetizer, why don't we go for the low-fat protein-rich main course.
Maybe we can balance it out."
     Nick eagerly took the proffered branch. "Maybe," he said softly
and headed for the fridge.
     While he poured the protein shake into a glass, Natalie put her
fries and hamburger out on a plate, and put it on the coffee table.
     "So," Nick said, lightening the atmosphere, "did you bring a
movie tonight?"
     Natalie started at that. She'd brought a real thriller tonight,
but now it stood like an omen of future portents and she was hesitant
to even mention it. "Yes," she said slowly, "I brought a movie with
me, but I don't think it's such a good one, now."
     "What it is?" Nick asked.
     Natalie's hands went still for just a moment, then she busily
squeezed the ketchup out of the bag onto her plate. "*No Way Out,*"
she said, as if she'd rather not say it all.
     Nick stared out the window at the waning night, a bitter look
brewing in his eyes. "Yeah," he said after a moment, "maybe not
tonight."
     And Natalie looked away as a tear came suddenly to her eye. For
the first time she began to realize that maybe there was no way
out--for either of them.





Chapter 5

     Vachon slipped into the church just as the horizon began to show
a faint gray light, hinting at the dawn to come. He took the shortcut
through the belfry. It always sent the bats into a flurry of
activity. They never seemed to be able to figure out what to do when
he whipped through. He wasn't one of them, and then again, he was. It
was as though their radar whacked out. Vachon loved it.
     He landed softly and had taken only a single step towards his
crates of blood when he stopped.
     "Tracy," he said without turning, "what are you doing here?
Aren't you supposed to be hitting the sack about now?"
     Tracy squawked and jumped about an inch from her curled-up
position on the end of his beat-up sofa. She put a hand to her heart
and gulped in some air.
     "Vachon! How do you do that? . . . When did you get . . . ? You
scared me half to death!" She sat up and turned to look at him over
the back of the couch. "In fact, how'd you get in? I didn't hear a
thing!"
     Vachon smiled and moved in a blur to stand by the couch. Tracy
blinked and tried to adjust her vision to accept what she patently
knew wasn't possible. She'd had physics, and things just couldn't
move that fast. But then again, vampires hadn't exactly come up in
her class.
     He knelt and leaned against the back of the couch, his arms
resting along the top. His look was just slightly on the wrong side
of lecherous. "If you want, Trace, I can finish the job . . . and
scare you all the way to death."
     Tracy rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but no thanks. I've got things
to do."
     "Oh? You could still do them, you know."
     "No. I have things to do in the sun. You know, daylight. I don't
want to turn into a little pile of ash, Vachon."
     Vachon shrugged and stood. He leapt with easy grace over the
couch and landed in the seat. Dust flew up at the assault, and Tracy
bounced like she was on a trampoline.
     "What is this? Circus night?" she asked, getting her breath once
more.
     Vachon smiled, but ignored the question. He figured it was
rhetorical anyway. "So why are you hanging around my little piece of
heaven, Trace?"
     Tracy idly played with a little tuft of leather curling up from
a cut on the couch. "I didn't feel like going home, exactly. I just
wanted to talk. You know, unwind a bit. Anyway, most everybody I know
outside of work, is just thinking about getting up. And the people I
know at work are thinking about going to bed. So I thought of you."
     "And you think I don't need my beauty rest?" Vachon quipped.
     "No," Tracy said laughing. "You're the only person I know who
looks great no matter what--even when you're covered in blood and
gore."
     "I'm not sure that's a compliment, Trace," Vachon said dryly,
"but thanks."
     Tracy smiled.
     "So, what's happening on the 'de-tect-ing' front?"
     Tracy shook her head. "I don't know. I spent a lot of tonight
wondering what happened to my powers of observation. Some days I
think I'm really getting a handle on it, and then we have a night
like tonight. I spent all night playing catch-up with Nick. He was
miles ahead of me."
     Tracy looked at Vachon. "Do you ever have nights where nothing
seems to go right?"
     "Once a decade or so," Vachon allowed.
     Tracy twisted her lips into a grimace and nudged him with her
fist.
     "But things could be taking a turn for the worse . . ."
     "Oh," Tracy asked, brightening, "how?"
     Vachon frowned a bit at her. "Urs. I have mentioned Urs before,
haven't I?"
     Tracy nodded. "Yeah, you said she was part of your crew."
     Vachon dipped his head just slightly in acknowledgment. "Yeah."
He decided now was not the time to mention that he'd brought her
across. They could spend hours on that murky subject. Tracy would
probably dwell on it for weeks--she loved that kind of stuff.
     "She found a kitten tonight. Somebody had slammed it into a wall
or something. Used it like a bean-bag, I guess."
     Tracy's face crumpled into dismayed concern. "No . . ."
     "Yeah. Anyway, it . . . he was still alive. He was just a little
kitten, and she hauled it off to a vet to see if it would live."
     "And?"
     "It's going to live," Vachon said gloomily.
     "What's wrong with that?"
     "Urs wants to keep it."
     "So?"
     "So? Cats do not get along with vampires, generally speaking.
They are on spitting, hissing, and scratching terms only!"
     Tracy laughed. "You're kidding. I thought they'd be like
everything else--mesmerized or something."
     "No," Vachon said, a bit grumpily.
     "And why is this a problem?"
     "Because, knowing Urs, I'll be the one cleaning out the litter
box. I'm the one that's going to end up doing battle with the little
furball."
     "Vachon!" Tracy protested. "It's just a kitten. You're a lot
bigger, you know."
     "Yeah, but he's got claws."
     "So? You've got fangs," Tracy pointed out briskly.
     Vachon stared at her blankly.
     Tracy started to laugh. "I can't believe it. You're afraid of a
kitten."
     "Am not."
     "Yes, you are."
     "No. I'm just not into being the clean-up crew."
     "Well, I think it's awfully nice of you to help her out," Tracy
said cheerfully.
     Vachon wrinkled his forehead in thought. He couldn't remember
offering to help out. This was how he always got into trouble. Urs
probably figured he'd volunteered, too.

                                 ###

     Urs turned the key slowly and entered her "Garden-level"
apartment. She dropped her jacket on the couch and said rather
cheerily, "Hi, honey, I'm home." As she checked her answering
machine, she finished in a whisper, "whoever and wherever you
are . . ."
     A sad look washed across her face. She'd taken up saying that
ever since she'd seen Michelle Pfeiffer say something like it in some
movie. She couldn't remember what movie, but she did remember it was
Michelle. Blondes had to stick together.
     She wished once again that she had someone, but she didn't. She
hadn't brought anybody here since she'd met Jacqueline. Not a single
one-night stand. No brief, empty passionate (and messy) affairs. No
lost mortals, who would lose it all in her arms. Nobody.
     There was no one to fill the empty places or empty spaces in her
house or in her heart. No one. And it was hard. She yearned for the
companionship, if only for an hour or a day, and she felt a gnawing
need inside of her for someone to tell her she was okay. At first,
she'd felt like a drug addict going through withdrawal. The pain had
been intense--and ugly--but she'd survived. But she hadn't had to do
it alone. Vachon had been there for her. He'd arrived in the middle
of a thunderstorm, looking like a drowned mop. His eyes had been
wild, his hair a stringy, ugly mess, and he'd been certain she'd been
injured, based on all the pain radiating through their link.
     He'd stared at her in astonishment as she'd looked up at him
from where she'd been drawn up in a ball on her couch. Her face had
been swollen with bitter red tears, and ugly with pain. Vachon had
dropped to her side and simply held her until she was ready to talk.
He stayed that night, and many after. Some he'd spent on the couch,
others he'd spent in her bed, keeping her safe in a way no one but
Vachon could. Slowly, he'd helped her talk it through, and understand
it. And finally she'd told him she was ready to be by herself once
more.
     Urs knew he still watched from the shadows. Sometimes she could
feel him melting around a corner just as she turned to look. Other
times, she felt him there, close to her mind, using their link to
watch over her and monitor her. But her life was getting better. She
was feeling more confident and sure of herself. And as she did,
Vachon was moving farther back, letting her find her own way, and she
loved him for that. But she was still lonely.
     She walked into her pint-sized kitchen and took an unmarked
bottle out of her refrigerator. Then, with precise care, she pulled a
lead-crystal wine glass from her cupboard and poured a drink.
     Funny how habits died harder than anything, Urs thought as she
stared at the glass in her hand. Her mother had taught her to always
set the table, even if she was by herself. "Always act like a lady,
Ursula. Don't ever let your manners go, or you'll lose all
self-respect," her mother had said so many, many times.
     Urs made a face. Over a hundred years later and a very different
diet, she still, in essence, set the table and ate in elegance. Maybe
her mother was right. Rituals were what held you together when
everything else was falling apart.
     Urs stared at the print by Degas, hung with care on her dining
room wall. The skewed viewpoint in the picture reminded her of her
own life. Everything seemed to be off-balance, just like Urs was--or
had been, she thought resolutely. Urs was closer than she'd ever been
before in her life to being in control, and being happy. Given time,
she was sure she could get there.
     The art class helped. Work helped. Her life had purpose and
value. Urs was learning new things every day, and being useful. She
was helping out at the blood bank on Thursday nights (okay, so she had
a slightly ulterior motive there), and for the first time in her life,
she was coming close to a contentment that came from inside--from who
she was--rather than from those around her.
     And oddly, for the first time in over a century, she yearned for
something more than immediate approval, or instant gratification. She
wanted something more lasting and permanent. She longed for someone
to share her life with. Yeah, a guy. But not just any guy, not just
under any circumstances, and not because he gave her the approval she
had desperately wanted for so many long years.
     She wanted someone to grow with, become better with, and love
with. A pretty tall order for a vampire, Urs knew. Vampires lived
very transitory lives, and maintained only a few long-lasting
relationships, typically between master and child. But Urs knew what
she was searching for wouldn't be found with Vachon. As close as they
were, he was still her maker, and he was more like an irritating
brother most the time. He wasn't the kind of man she wanted, despite
the passion that they shared in vulnerable moments. They were much
too different in temperament, desires, and values. Just the fact that
she had an apartment, paid rent, and owned furniture put them in
vastly different categories.
     She swirled her drink and sipped it slowly. Not a Vachon, then.
Vachon lived in a wreck of a church and owned nothing. Screed . . .
well he lived in the sewer. There wasn't much more to say. If he had
$50, it was a gold mine to be spent. Bourbon hadn't been much
interested in material things, either. His main pursuit had been fun.
She stared at the wall and saw the past for a brief moment, then she
shook her head. Well, all that fun had led to his death. So someone
in the pursuit of fun wasn't the answer either. Nor were any of the
guys she'd hung out with, dated, or had sex with, in the time she'd
spent in Toronto. In fact, she couldn't think of anyone that she knew
well, that she would want. She wanted someone different,
someone . . . who would treat her well, not like dirt. Someone with a
value system similar to her own.
     The sun came over the horizon at that moment, and Urs felt it
quench her vitality. She never got used to that, the sudden death of
all her energy, the need to hibernate overwhelming her. Vachon said
it got better, and it had, but it wasn't something she liked.
     Maybe it was better if you had someone to share it with. She
tried to imagine what it would be like to share her days and nights
with someone who was responsible, loving and caring. Someone who was
learning and growing and trying to change for the better. She sighed.
She really couldn't see it. It was just another pipe dream. Vampires
just didn't have those traits. What a crock life was, Urs thought
cynically, thanks to Vachon, and his misguided sense of honor. When
you asked for death, you ought to get death--not an eternity of a
shadow life.
     Realizing she'd finished her drink, Urs abruptly got up, rinsed
her glass and decided to call it a night. Thinking melancholy
thoughts and wishing for the moon didn't make it happen; doing useful
things and being positive, did. And no matter what it took, she was
going to get past this. With or without a man, Urs thought
emphatically, realizing that maybe what she was feeling was just a
new version of the same old thing. She shook her head and headed for
the bedroom. She was going to overcome it all--even if she had to go
find a psychiatrist to do it!

                                 ###

     Tracy yawned as she threaded her way through the maze of desks
in the bullpen and headed for her desk. She took another sip of her
coffee in hopes it would work a miracle and clear her head. She had
stayed up too late talking to Vachon, and now she was going to pay
for it.
     Nick didn't even look up as Tracy sank into her chair. He was
deep in a conversation on the phone and scribbling madly. Tracy tried
to read it upside down, but found she couldn't focus on it. Nick's
handwriting, though, was some of the clearest and neatest Tracy had
ever seen--when she was looking at it from the right side up--while
Tracy's writing was just a bunch of chicken scratches. She wondered
idly where he'd learned to write like that.
     Nick hung up the phone and looked at Tracy, then he looked a
little closer. "You look tired, Trace," he commented.
     Tracy blinked and yawned in response. She covered her mouth with
her hand and nodded.
     "What did you do, stay up all day?" Nick asked.
     "No. Not all day. But enough," Tracy said with a shrug. "I went
to visit a friend and stayed too long."
     A faint frown marred Nick's face. He was willing to bet the
friend had been Vachon. He didn't like the closeness that was growing
there. It was too dangerous for Tracy. It was dangerous for all of
them, and he didn't want Tracy hurt. There'd been too many people
hurt because of him, because of what he was.
     "Nick?" Tracy asked with some impatience, penetrating his
thoughts. He guessed from her tone that he'd missed some
conversation.
     "Umm, what?"
     "How do you do that?" Tracy demanded. "How do you just zone out
in the middle of a conversation like that. It is so weird."
     Nick smiled and shrugged. "Sorry. You just reminded me of the
fact that there's someone I need to visit."
     "Well, if you do, try and stay with the conversation. It makes
for better relations," Tracy said somewhere between humor and
frustration. She hoped this wasn't going to be one of those nights
where she was easily angered, but it didn't look good. She *really*
needed that sleep.
     "I'll try," Nick said with a grin. "Not to change the subject,
but . . . to change the subject, we've got an appointment at Liz
Margulies' charity organization."
     "Now?" Tracy asked, taking another sip of her coffee.
     "Now," Nick said and stood up.
     "Guess it's time to wake up, huh?" Tracy said, picking up her
coffee and following Nick out of the precinct.
     Caring Hands, Liz Margulies' official organization, was housed
in a clean, modern skyscraper near BCE place. "Nice place," Tracy
commented as they strode across the brilliant marble floor towards
the elevators. The whole lobby subtly spoke of wealth and power. "Bet
the rent here isn't cheap. I wonder if that comes out of the charity
or her own pocket?"
     Nick slanted a glance at Tracy. "I'd guess out of the charity,
based on what we've learned about her personality so far."
     "Yeah, me too," Tracy agreed. "She's just not that charitable."
     At the elevator, Nick scanned down the list of businesses
looking for Caring Hands. His finger stopped on it, and tapped it
lightly. "Twentieth floor," Nick said. "A room with a definite view."
     Tracy pushed the button, and as they waited, Nick finished
eyeballing the list of businesses located in the elegant Walker
Centre.
     "Trace," he said abruptly. "Look at this."
     Tracy, who'd been staring at her softened image in the burnished
brass of the door, started. "Look at what?"
     Nick put his finger on a business name. "The Loring Escort
Service. Why would an Escort service reside in a place like this?"
     "They have rich clients?" Tracy guessed. "After all, people in
high places pay high prices for quality . . . um . . . escorts."
     Nick turned and stared at Tracy without seeing her. "Yeah, but
the location seems very . . . convenient. I wonder . . . ?"
     Tracy looked seriously at Nick. "You think there's a connection
between the service and Liz?"
     The elevator door opened with a gentle ping, and they stepped
into the elevator. The doors glided shut quietly as Nick punched the
button for the twentieth floor.
     "There could be," Nick said. "It certainly wouldn't hurt to do a
little checking."
     "Okay, it's a possibility," Tracy admitted, interested, "but
wouldn't you think that would be a little close to home? It wouldn't
take much for someone to make the connection."
     "Maybe she didn't care. Or the convenience outweighed the risks,
or," Nick said slowly, "she relied on human nature."
     "You mean, she bet that people just wouldn't believe it, or see
the connection, because they couldn't or wouldn't believe someone in
her position would ever do that?" Tracy said somewhere between a
question and a statement.
     "Exactly!" Nick said.
     "Well, if she did, she really had guts," Tracy said. "But it's
still a bit of a stretch."
     "Yeah, but my instinct tells me it's right," Nick said just as
the doors opened on the twentieth floor.
     Moments later, they walked into the plushly carpeted office of
Caring Hands. A well-groomed woman looked up from behind a mahogany
and brass desk. "May I help you?"
     Nick displayed his badge. "Detectives Knight and Vetter of Metro
Homicide. We have an appointment to see Carol Weitz."
     "Yes, she's expecting you," the secretary said. Rising, she
escorted them into a large conference room. "She'll be right with
you."
     She gently shut the door behind her, leaving them in a large
corner conference room with glass walls on two sides, looking out on
the Toronto skyline and the lake. A full moon glittered across the
lake, adding a surreal aura to the view. Tracy was drawn to it. "Wow.
Look at that view. This charity obviously does a lot better than
anything Mom was ever involved in."
     Nick smiled and joined her. "She probably did real charity work.
This looks like . . ."
     " . . . a money-making business," Tracy finished.
     "Something like that," Nick agreed.
     The door opened and Carol Weitz entered. She was a tall,
full-bosomed woman, with artfully groomed hair that looked like
someone had stirred it with a stick in Nick's estimation. She was as
tall as he was without the aid of her three-inch heels, which sank
into the plush carpet and made her ankles wobble ever so slightly. Her
silk blouse draped low, revealing an ample amount of cleavage. She
reeked of wealth, power, and raw sexuality.
     "Carol Weitz," she said in a low, seductive tone, holding out
her hand to Nick. She ignored Tracy as if she wasn't there.
     "Detective Knight," Nick said, shaking her hand, and then
gesturing towards Tracy. "And this is Detective Vetter."
     She acknowledged Tracy briefly with a nod, never even glancing
her way while turning a hormone-laden look on Nick.
     "Detective? What did you want to see me about?"
     "Ms. Weitz," Nick said, "we're sorry to inform you that Ms.
Margulies was killed last night."
     Carol Weitz went white, her face chalky against her chemically
enhanced red hair, all her sexuality snuffed out instantly. Nick
instinctively reached out and steadied her, catching her elbow.
     "No . . ." Carol managed as Nick guided her to a chair at the
conference table. "It's not possible. We talked just last night, at
nine. You must be mistaken . . ."
     "I'm sorry," Tracy added, moving forward, "but Ms. Margulies is
dead."
     "How?" Carol managed thickly.
     "She was murdered," Nick stated plainly, "and we're hoping you
might be able to help shed some light on who would want to do this."
     Carol shook her head, her eyes blank headlights. "Oh, no . . .
oh, no . . ." she whispered.
     "Ms. Weitz," Nick said patiently, looking into her eyes. Carol
looked back and Nick took advantage. His voice echoed down the
corridors of her mind. "Calm down. Just take a deep breath and
relax."
     The panic inside her seemed to disappear. Carol stared into his
eyes and slowly relaxed. Nick let his gentle hold on her mind go.
     Carol breathed and put her hand on her heart. Her eyes fluttered
closed for a moment, then she opened them to look at Nick. "What
happened?"
     "She was found murdered last night. I'm sorry, we aren't at
liberty to talk about the details," Tracy said.
     Carol looked at Tracy for the first time. "Why would anyone want
to do that to Liz?"
     "That's what we're hoping you can help us with," Nick
interjected, not allowing the conversation to wander. "Do you know
anyone who would want to harm her?"
     Carol stared past Nick for a moment, her face an odd mixture of
conflicting emotions, obviously indecisive about what to say.
     "We would appreciate the truth, Ms. Weitz. We will find it
sooner or later," Nick finished.
     Carol looked down at her hands and laced them together, then let
them flutter apart to land awkwardly in her lap. She sighed and
looked at Nick. "Liz liked to live on the edge. She used to say it
was the only thing that made life exciting. It was the only way to
feel. She was crazy at times. I don't think there is anything that
she hasn't tried at some time or other." Carol picked absently at her
long, beautifully manicured nail. "She had a lot of affairs. And she
was always the one to walk away, sometimes after only one night. It
was the hunt that thrilled her, and when she got what she was after,
she moved on to something new."
     Carol stopped, obviously unwilling to go on. Nick, looking at
her, was certain that it wasn't just Liz who lived on the edge. Carol
had probably been right there with her.
     "And . . . this angered some of them, enough to threaten her?"
     Carol nodded her head.
     "Who?"
     Carol remained silent.
     "Ms. Weitz," Nick said softly, but with an edge she couldn't
mistake, "we would prefer to do this the easy way, but if you want,
we can take this to the precinct."
     Carol stared at him and swallowed. "There are three I can think
of who have made threats that I know of, Detective. There might have
been more. Liz didn't tell me everything. She keeps . . . kept things
to herself."
     "So, who made threats against her?" Tracy asked, pulling her
notebook out.
     Carol swung around and looked at Tracy as if she hadn't known
she was there. Ignoring her, she turned back to Nick and spoke
softly. "Carlton Scott was the most recent. Then there was Bryce
Collier, and . . . and Carolyn Adler."
     Tracy and Nick exchanged startled glances. "Carolyn Adler?"
Tracy asked. "Of the Board of Directors of the University of Toronto?
That Carolyn Adler?"
     Carol nodded, her eyes downcast, staring at the floor.
     "And Bryce Collier, owner of the Toronto Gazette?" Nick
finished.
     Carol nodded again.
     Nick watched her intently for a moment. "Why was Carolyn Adler
threatening her?"
     Carol looked up at him, an amused smile lighting her face for the
briefest of moments. "Because Liz seduced her. She seduced her out of
her complacent, fat cow attitude. She made some rather narrow-minded
remarks about lesbians, and Liz decided to take her down. So she
did. And when she got her there, she dropped her." Carol snickered at
some remembered moment. "She got just what she deserved, but she hated
Liz for it."
     "Was Liz a lesbian, then?" Tracy asked perplexed.
     Carol sneered at her. "Liz liked to walk both sides of the
street. Wherever there was excitement. It was all just a game.
Everything was." She looked away, the momentary defiance gone. "Now
it's all gone. It's over."
     Tracy looked at Nick over her head, the question obvious in her
eyes.
     Nick leaned closer to Carol. "And what was your relationship
with Liz, Carol?"
     Carol started slightly and stared at Nick. 
     "Carol?" He exerted his will on her ever so slightly, and her
name resonated in her head. 
     Carol answered slowly. "Liz was my partner here. We ran Caring
Hands together . . ."
     "And . . . ?" Nick asked, pushing a little harder.
     "Sometimes we were lovers," Carol said slowly, a sensuous tone
sliding through her voice. The look on her face was a look of
remembered lust. "Sometimes we helped each other seduce somebody
else--like Carolyn, or Bryce. Sometimes we ran schemes together,
played games with people. We had so damn much fun. And we were
friends, best friends . . ."
     "What kinds of schemes?" Nick asked, interrupting, repulsed.
     Unable to stop herself, Carol dug herself a deeper hole,
revealing her utter amorality. "We sometimes found out about secrets
people had, and we would ruin them--let just the right person
know--for the fun of it. Or sometimes we would blackmail them for
favors--things that would help the charity, or one of us."
     "Was she blackmailing anyone currently?" Nick asked abruptly.
     Carol spat out the answer. "Yes! She was always blackmailing
somebody."
     "Who?"
     "I don't know. She didn't tell me everything."
     "Would anyone know?"
     "No. No one but Liz. But if I know her, she kept records
somewhere."
     Tracy caught Nick's eye, and mouthed "those black books?"
     Nick nodded in agreement, then looked back at Carol, who waited,
still caught in his control.
     "Was there anything else she might have been doing that would
have caused someone to want to harm her?"
     "I don't know. Maybe."
     Nick let her go, disgusted at the pettiness of her actions,
remembering another's cruelty.

                                 ###

*New York, 1960*
     Nick entered the bistro just as a church clock somewhere struck
9 p. m. He had been working here, playing the piano, for several
months. For the first time in a long time, he was feeling a tentative
peace grow inside of him. He had fled to New York in 1954 from
Chicago, reeling from the assault on his character. The hearings had
been appalling, and ultimately disastrous to his life as Nicholas
Girard.
     New York had proved a balm to his tattered spirit, and he'd
built a new life as Nicholas Forrester, thanks to Aristotle's
carefully crafted background. The first year he'd spent in seclusion,
humiliated and in despair, but then, the avant-garde atmosphere of
Greenwich Village had caught his attention and he'd been swept up in
the enthusiasm of it all.
     He'd begun to paint in earnest, experimenting with all the new
styles and ideas. He'd made quite a name for himself with the local
galleries, and his work sold well. And slowly he'd ventured out and
made new friends, and found new interests.
     The artistic revival also brought him into chance encounters with
other artists. One thing had led to another, and he'd found himself
playing piano in an all-night jam session with Michael Flaherty. That
had led to his job at the bistro. Michael was a part-owner who played
the oboe in his spare time, and he loved to jam with Nick whenever he
could.
     And in the bistro, he'd found a life he was truly enjoying. It
was here that he had met Allen, and formed a friendship based on
their mutual love of archeology. Allen had often said that if money
hadn't been such a pressing issue, he would have majored in it, and
gone on to pursue it full-time. But instead, he'd followed the road
to journalism, and pursued his hobby on weekends and vacations.
     Nick enjoyed his theories, some of which were far off the mark
and some of which were very close, indeed. Allen had views on the
Crusades that Nick had been hard pressed *not* to confirm. Nick was
coming perilously close to trusting Allen, something he hadn't
thought possible after Chicago.
     Life, Nick mused as he walked down the stairs into the bistro,
was full of surprises. It might knock you down, but then it picked
you up out of the gutter and gave you moments in time that were
precious gems.
     Nick slowed and came to a stop as he spied Allen sitting at the
bar, his hair in disarray, an ash-tray full of cigarette butts in
front of him along with a glass of Scotch.
     Nick slid into the seat beside him. "Allen," he said softly.
     Allen looked up blearily, and attempted to focus on Nick.
     "Oh . . . Nick," he slurred out at last.
     "Allen, what happened?" Nick asked concerned.
     Allen shook his head, then picked up his glass and tossed off
the rest of his Scotch. He choked a bit on it, and sputtered.
     "I think you've had enough," Nick said, taking the glass from
his hand.
     Allen pushed him off disagreeably. "Hell, no, I've just
started."
     "Why?"
     "Jake Farley," Allen said bitterly. "I ought to kill him. He
deserves to be nice and dead."
     "What did Jake do?" Nick asked, signaling the bartender.
     Allen stared down into his empty glass. "What didn't he do,
might be a better question."
     The bartender stopped and met Nick's eyes. "A glass of wine for
me, and something to help him sober up."
     The bartender nodded and disappeared.
     "I don't want to so . . . ber uppp," Allen said petulantly.
     "Never mind that," Nick said impatiently, "just tell me what
happened."
     Allen stared at Nick silently, his face full of woe. "The
son-of-a-bitch stole my story. I'd been working on it for months. It's
Pulitzer stuff, Nick, and he stole it. Hell, we were partnered for all
the regular stories, and I guess I talked too much, I dunno . . ."
     Allen slowly turned his glass around as he talked.
     "Anyway, he found my files, and he took them. And he's published
it as his. I haven't got any proof that he did it, nothing,
absolutely zilch, because he took all my files. All of them! It was
about archeology . . . ." Allen said woefully.
     "Why would he do that, Allen?" Nick asked, feeling his anger
stir.
     "Because he wants to get to the top, and he wants to get there
now. And mostly because his old man is the owner of the Washington
Gazette. He's got to prove he can take it on--at least, I think
that's why. But I think he's just a complete jerk who takes what he
wants and doesn't care who he hurts or how. He's got money, he's got
power, and he just takes." Allen looked at Nick with tears welling in
his eyes. "That story meant everything to me. I'd been working on it
for eight months. Eight endless months. It was finally ready, and he
just . . . took it."
     "Can you expose him?" Nick asked.
     Allen shook his head mutely. "I told you, he took everything. I
have nothing left to prove it. And I hadn't told anybody about it, so
I don't even have verbal conversations to back it up. It was a great
piece of research. And now, it's his coup . . ."
     The bartender put down a glass of something mixed with tomato
juice in front of Allen, and a wine in front of Nick, disconcerting
Allen.
     Allen shoved it away, and only the efforts of both the bartender
and Nick kept it from spilling on the floor.
     Allen leapt from his seat and plowed a course towards the front
door. "I'm gonna kill the bastard . . ." he said angrily.
     Nick, with a muttered imprecation, followed. He glanced back at
the bartender, "Put it on my tab," he said.
     He caught up with Allen as he stumbled up the stairs. "Come on.
Let's get you home. Then we can figure out what to do."
     "Kill him," Allen sighed. "That's all that's left to do . . .
just kill him."

                                 ###

     Nick abruptly came back to the present as Carol blinked and
shrunk back in her seat, unable to believe she had just told him some
of her darkest secrets.
     Tracy, thinking about their conversation in the elevator, kept
her face neutral as she asked, "Did you and Liz run an escort service
on the side, as perhaps, another little business?"
     Carol looked up at her, resentment hardening her face. "How did
you . . . ?" She stopped abruptly.
     "That wouldn't be the Loring Escort Service, now, would it?"
Nick asked.
     Carol stared at her hands numbly, unsure of how her whole life
had fallen apart in the last fifteen minutes.
     "Ms. Weitz?"
     "I believe this interview is over, Detective," Carol said
coldly, standing. "My partner is dead, and you're playing games with
my head. I've got things to take care of--and you're confusing me."
     Nick stood, blocking her exit. "Did Liz own the Loring Escort
Service?"
     Carol breathed hard. After a moment, she glared at Nick, with
hatred sparking in her eyes. "Yes. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got
to go do something about Liz's cats. They haven't been fed today, if
she died last night. Someone's got to take care of the cats."
     Startled, Tracy asked, "What cats?"
     Carol looked Tracy, her anger overflowing. "Her cats. She keeps
them in her office, because that jackass of a husband is allergic to
them and wouldn't let her keep them at home. Liz loved cats. She has
five of them. Okay? Are you happy, now?" On that note she left the
conference room and slammed the door.
     "Cats?" Tracy asked.
     "Cats," Nick said with a sigh. "Well, Trace, it looks like we've
got our work cut out for us."
     "What do we do about Carol Weitz?"
     "We haven't got anything specific against her. If we find
something, we can charge her, but for now . . ." Nick shrugged. "We
only know she likes living on the seamy side of life for her kicks."
     On that note, they left Caring Hands and headed for the
elevator.
     Nick pressed the button for the elevator impatiently, and stood
glaring at the door as if that would make it come faster. He was
suddenly perturbed by his casual hypnotizing of Carol Weitz in front
of Tracy. He felt he was losing ground each day. It was if he had
ceased to care whether she observed his behavior or not. And of all
the people to do it in front of . . . Tracy was the worst. She knew
about vampires. She had seen Vachon use it. She was most likely to
recognize the characteristic behavior.
     Tracy on the other hand, was mulling over the revelations Nick
had enticed out of Carol. She was always amazed at how people just
loved to spill their guts to Nick. They could be as tight-lipped as a
sphinx with anyone else, but one look from Nick and they were begging
to talk. She envied him that ability, and wished she could learn it.
     Carol had given them a lot of leads and none of them were
pretty, Tracy thought. Everything about this case was ugly. The least
ugly, it seemed to Tracy, was the method of murder. Just the sheer
anger that Liz seemed to have generated from a number of people ought
to have resulted in a very messy and ugly death. She'd gotten off
lightly. And Tracy felt ugly herself for even thinking it.
     "Nick," Tracy said abruptly, "do you happen to remember which
floor the Escort service was on?"
     Nick looked at Tracy just as the elevator arrived. "Yeah. The
third. A much less interesting view."
     Tracy nodded and stepped into the elevator, followed closely by
Nick. The doors closed silently, and Tracy cleared her throat. "Let's
go visit them while we're here."
     Nick merely nodded.
     "I don't like this case," Tracy said softly. "There's not one
person we've run into so far with any redeeming qualities. These are
the people my mother worked with, the kind of people she wanted me to
emulate--to be like. They are all well known, honored, and respected
people--on the outside--but on the inside . . ." Tracy stopped and
leaned back against the elevator wall.
     "Whited sepulchres," Nick murmured after a moment.
     "What?" Tracy said, opening her eyes and looking at him.
     " 'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are
like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward,
but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness.
     " 'Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but
within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.'
     "That's what Jesus called people who were hypocrites and liars.
Abusers of decency. Whited sepulchres," Nick said as he glanced
sideways at Tracy. "They're beautiful on the outside, but
inside . . . Well, you get the drift."
     Tracy smiled and looked up at her partner. He never failed to
amaze and confuse her. "I didn't know you were a student of the
scriptures, Nick."
     Nick looked away at the wall. "I had some time to kill a few
years ago, so I read it. It never hurts to know what's in the Bible.
One way or another, just about everybody in western civilization has
been influenced by it."
     "Yeah, but you don't seem the religious type."
     "I'm not really, but it was still an interesting read," Nick
said wryly, "not to mention a great study in how men behave." His
memory rested briefly on the time he had spent reading, studying,
over three centuries ago, searching for a way out, through its
teachings. He'd singed himself on his Bible several times, and once
he'd caught fire--along with the book--he'd been that intent. LaCroix
had been absolutely livid and thrown it in the fire. Nick had merely
obtained another, and LaCroix, realizing Nick's stubbornness, had let
him run his course.
     Nick had a lot more tolerance now for holy objects, but he'd
never minded the pain he'd suffered to read it. He only wished it had
offered him more hope. If anything damned him, that book did--most
assuredly.
     The elevator doors opened, releasing him from his morbid
thoughts, and Nick followed Tracy silently to the Loring Escort
Agency. The door was locked, and the windows dark. Tracy pressed her
hands against the window and peered inside. "I guess," she muttered,
"they went home. Though you'd think an escort service would be open
in the evening."
     Nick smiled. "Well, maybe they arrange everything in the daytime
and then they all go out in the evening," he suggested.
     Tracy glared at him. "If they work in the office, they aren't
the escort type, Nick."
     Nick wondered on what empirical evidence Tracy based that fact,
but left it alone. "Well, either way, they've left for the day. It is
after all--" Nick checked his watch "--9:45, so I guess we'll have to
arrange to meet with them later. It's not like we haven't got a lot
of leads to follow up, already."
     Tracy sighed and tried the door one last time. "I know, but it
just seemed so convenient to talk to them now, kind of tie this
together."
     "That's probably what Liz thought, too," Nick said. "It was
convenient."
     "Yeah. Oh, well. Let's go," Tracy said and turned back towards
the bank of elevators. She punched the button vigorously, but no
elevator appeared.
     "What is it with this place, Nick? Do you realize how much time
we've spent waiting for elevators? We just got off, shouldn't the
da . . . ng thing still be here?"
     Nick grinned at Tracy. "Maybe they've got artificial
intelligence, and believe all people need to wait an appropriate
amount of time."
     Tracy laughed. "Yeah, right. It's just Murphy's Law. Like when
you are in one line, all other lines will move faster. That sort of
thing. Come to think of it, this has been kind of a Murphy's Law day.
Themes just keep repeating themselves."
     "How so?" Nick asked as the elevator doors, at last, opened on a
soft ping.
     "Well, cats, for instance," Tracy said, following him inside.
"Liz Margulies had cats. That's the second time cats have come up in
the last twenty-four hours."
     Nick raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
     "That friend I went to visit--well one of *his* friends found a
kitten last night. Somebody must hate cats, because they threw it
against a wall, and tried to kill the poor thing. It just makes me
sick to think anybody could do something like that . . . Anyway, she
found it, and took it to a vet. It's . . . he's going to survive, and
she wants to adopt it. My friend wasn't happy, because he says he'll
be doing litter box duty, but I think he's afraid the cat will
supersede him. He's jealous of a cat . . ." Tracy trailed off at
Nick's look. She took a breath. "So, first somebody uses a kitten for
a bean-bag, and then Liz keeps cats in the office. Kind of weird,
don't you think?"
     Nick had been listening in amusement to Tracy's idea of
coincidence, when an alarm went off in his head at what she said. For
a moment, he couldn't figure out why. He knew she was talking about
Vachon, which meant the friend was probably Urs. Urs had a
compassionate heart, and would be very likely to rescue the
underdog--or undercat--so why did this set off alarms? And then he had
it.
     Animal blood. Streaks of blood smeared down the wall of the
alley where Liz Margulies had died. Fresh animal blood. And Liz
Margulies liked cats. A lot. Was it possible she'd had a cat with her
when she was attacked? It seemed like an incredible long shot, but
Nick knew there was no such thing as random chance. Things always
happened for a reason.
     "Nick?" Tracy asked, tugging on his coat. "Would you snap out of
it? Let's go."
     Nick came to, and followed Tracy out of the elevator, his mind
spinning at the possibilities. There were definitely some things he
needed to check out before the night was over. 





Chapter 6

     Natalie Lambert sighed, and pushed back a stray hair as she
leaned back and stretched. She dropped the last of her instruments in
a tray, and slowly covered the body. Liz Margulies had died of
strangulation. It was that simple. Someone had wrapped their fingers
around her neck and crushed her windpipe. They had left a dark,
bluish-purple thumb print shape on her neck. Unfortunately, they
hadn't left enough body oils to obtain a print.
     She also had a broken arm, and the angle of the break seemed to
indicate Liz had been attempting to defend herself. She'd let Nick
and Tracy work that out, though.
     And thinking of Nick made Natalie frown. He'd been behaving
rather erratically lately, and it was not comforting. So much had
gone wrong for them in the last few months since Schanke's death. And
the shock waves just seemed to continue to flow over and around them.
Natalie stared unseeingly at the corpse in front of her. Nick had
nearly left after Schanke died, it had been that devastating for him.
He wasn't one to reveal his feelings, but the pain had been there if
one knew how to look.
     And he needed Schanke., He *needed* him, or someone like him.
Nick had no one to talk to whom he trusted, besides her. And frankly,
Nick needed another mortal to talk to. He needed a guy like Schanke
to confide in, and to talk to, the way guys talked. He may not have
told Schanke everything, but he trusted him and loved him. Schanke
had been a good outlet for Nick, even if he hadn't known it. And now
all he had was LaCroix and her. That was a hell of a combination.
     Even Janette was gone. Natalie had struggled with that. She had
been jealous of Janette, and yet, watching Nick slowly destabilize,
she realized that he needed Janette, too. As much as she hated to
admit it, as much as it hurt, she realized that Janette had helped to
keep Nick from losing his equilibrium as much as Natalie did. The
scales were out of balance now, and Natalie didn't know how to fix
it. Neither, Natalie thought, did LaCroix.
     Then he'd been shot, lost his memory, and had to reabsorb who
and what he was, as well as recover from a devastating injury, even
for him. And since the night Nick had been possessed, which Natalie
still struggled with mentally--she didn't believe in demons, did
she?--he'd walked a very, very narrow tightrope.
     And now he was drinking human blood almost continually. She
wondered if she'd wake up one day soon and find he'd left. She had
nightmares about it. And she was afraid. For all that he confided in
her, there were so many walls inside Nick that she couldn't get past,
and she had no idea what was going on inside his turbulent mind.
     Last night had been very discouraging for both of them. She felt
trapped, caught in her love for Nick, and caught in his inability to
be anything other than what he was--a vampire. Nick felt caught as
well, caught between what he was and what he wanted to be.
     The door swung open, and Natalie looked into Nick's eyes. Her
vampire's eyes.
     "You look tired, Nat," Nick said.
     "I could say the same about you," Natalie joked, and noticing
Tracy, "Actually, the both of you. Bad night?"
     Tracy nodded. "Yeah. The more we learn about Liz, well, the less
likable she is, if you know what I mean."
     Natalie nodded. "Yes, I do. You two here for the autopsy
report?"
     "We thought we'd drop by on our way back to the precinct," Nick
said, "and see what you had."
     "Well," Natalie said in her professional voice, "she was
strangled, and we have some nice purple bruises to prove it was a
human hand that did it. No surprise there. But there were a couple of
little things that might help."
     "First off, Liz apparently put up a fight. She had a broken arm.
Both the radius and ulna were broken, the radius cleanly and the ulna
fractured." Natalie pulled back the cloth and showed Nick and Tracy
her arm. "This area was bruised, as if something had smashed down on
it. Something about a half-inch thick to judge by this sharp, dark
purple bruising. I'd say she lived long enough afterwards for initial
bruising to start, but not to spread."
     Natalie picked up Liz's hand and showed them her nails. "Her
nails have been broken and torn, and under three fingernails, I was
able to obtain skin scrapings. Enough to run a DNA test on. Whoever
killed her is walking around with some deep scratches, guys."
     Nick frowned thoughtfully. "That may be helpful."
     Natalie nodded. "I have a couple of other things here, too. I
found a trace of oil on Liz's right hand--of the type used to oil and
maintain firearms. Judging from that and the angle of the break in
her arm . . ." Natalie took Tracy's arm in her hands. "D'you mind?"
     Tracy shook her head. She was getting used to Natalie's habit of
recreating the crime with Tracy standing in for the corpse.
     "It looks like she was holding her arm out straight, like
this . . ." Natalie demonstrated, with Tracy's arm. "Hold it like
that," Natalie commanded. "Then, somebody brought something down with
force across her arm, breaking it."
     Tracy stared at Natalie's hand on her. "It looks like she could
have been holding a weapon."
     "Yes," Natalie agreed, excited, "and the proof might be in the
traces of gun oil on Liz's hand."
     Nick stared at Natalie. "I wonder if she was protecting herself,
or if she went there to threaten someone else, and it got out of
hand?"
     Tracy put her arm down. "What if she went there to kill someone,
and he turned the tables on her?"
     Natalie stared at them both. "You guys don't seem to have a very
high opinion of Liz, do you?"
     Tracy shrugged. "Well, everything we've learned about her keeps
lowering it. It can't get much lower at this point."
     "I thought she was head of a charity," Nat said.
     "She was," Tracy said pointedly, doggedly. "She just wasn't very
charitable. She used it to achieve her own personal agenda."
     "Nice," Natalie commented. "Oh, one other thing. I found a lot
of what appears to be dog or cat fur on her clothing. Don't know if
it means anything, but there it is."
     Nick and Tracy exchanged glances.
     "Cats," Tracy said. "See what I mean? They're everywhere."
     "Thanks," Nick said softly, "this ought to help. C'mon, Trace,
let's get back to the precinct. We've got a lot of work to do."
     "Yeah," Tracy agreed, waving goodbye to Natalie. "You wouldn't
believe all the dirt this woman was up to. See you."
     "Bye," Nat said.
     "Bye," Nick said, then stopped as Tracy left the room. "Are you
going to come by after the shift?"
     "Not tonight," Natalie said. "I have an eye exam at 8:00. And
then I think I'm going to crash."
     "Eye exam?"
     "Nothing serious, just the yearly checkup," Nat said cheerfully,
"and truth be told, I'd rather be at your place than the doctor's,
but there it is."
     "Well, then," Nick said softly moving close and kissing her on
the brow, "I'll see you tonight."
     And then he left, taking with him Natalie's heart. But then, she
thought, he'd always had it. Ever since he woke up on her table.

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