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I sat back down and wondered how badly I'd ruined my chances with Latham. Could I be any less demure?

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I'm really not a violent person."

"Don't be sorry." Latham looked flushed. "This is actually the most exciting date I've ever had in my life. What are you doing tonight?"

"Pardon me?"

"I get off at six. Can I make you dinner?"

"Uh, that would be great."

"Eight o'clock?"

"Fine."

He grinned. The waiter came by and we ordered our entrees.

Maybe all that money I spent on Lunch Mates was a good investment after all.

Chapter 31

HE KEEPS FALLING ASLEEP, WAITING FOR something to happen.

The discovery of the body in the cooler is exciting, but he has to stay too far back for fear of being seen. By the time the excitement dies down, Jack is back inside her office.

And now, the effects of a sleepless night are taking their toll. His eyelids keep closing. His head keeps lolling forward. Even the anger, the fuel that spurs him on, has been replaced by fatigue.

He uses the cigarette lighter to keep himself awake.

Charles knows he's grasping at straws. The surveillance on Jack is tight. Even the weak point, the shift change, proceeds smoothly. No matter where Jack goes, there's a team following her. But there has to be some kind of way.

He almost nods off, and again has to apply the lighter. He concentrates his efforts on his chest, where the burns will be out of the public view. Pain works so much better than caffeine.

Lunchtime comes, and his stomach rumbles. He hadn't expected to go on a stakeout, or he would have packed something. There's ice cream in the truck's freezer, but he hates ice cream. Maybe he can step out and grab a bite at -The sedan he's following takes off. Jack is on the move. He starts the truck and follows, having to keep closer than he had last night because traffic is heavier. Once, he loses them at a red light, but they continue down the same street and he's able to catch up.

The destination is Jimmy Wong's on Wabash. Did Jack and her fat partner come here for a bite? He parks at a bus stop and watches.

An hour passes. He opens the door a crack and pisses on the street. He eats a Popsicle. He burns his chest again. He thinks about having Jack to himself, keeping her alive for days. Jack is the closest anyone has ever come to understanding him. Having her undivided attention would be delicious.

He knows Jack will just die for it.

Jack leaves the restaurant -- not with Herb Benedict, but with another man. They shake hands, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. Friend? Lover? Brother?

There's only one way to be sure.

The man begins to walk away. Charles starts the truck and tails him for a block.

"Hey, buddy." He rolls down the window, pulling up close. The syringe is in his pocket. "I'm lost. Can you tell me how to get to Belmont?"

Chapter 32

I WAS FEELING PRETTY GOOD ABOUT myself. In one fell swoop I'd shaken off the vestiges of Don and had met a man who was attractive, interested, and much better suited for me. Even being grilled by Herb upon my arrival at the station hadn't hurt my mood.

"You're welcome."

"What for?"

"I seem to recall sending you off to Lunch Mates in the first place. The thank-you doesn't have to be formal. You can express your gratitude in a gift."

"Something to eat, perchance?"

"By happy coincidence, I've got a Mario's pizza menu in my pocket."

Benedict handed over the menu with instructions on what he liked on his pie. I wasn't shocked to find out he liked everything.

Formalities aside, we dove into the paperwork pool, gathering and collating information, trying to gain a better perspective on our perp.

We had yet to get any reports back on the third victim. The ME did a cursory inspection on site and drew several conclusions. She was a white female, late twenties to mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, between five four and five six based on the length of the femur. She'd been hacked apart, Maxwell Hughes guessed, by some kind of heavy-bladed knife or sword. All of the dismemberment appeared to be postmortem. Her right hand was missing, as was a good deal of tissue.

Cause of death was unknown. There was a large abrasion on her head consistent with a blow by a heavy object. There was also a stab wound in the left upper thigh, and we all could guess what it contained.

Other than that, there were few similarities to the other victims. She had ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, but the body bore no evidence of torture. The others hadn't been hacked up like this. The method of disposal was different. The killer had completely changed his MO. The million-dollar question was, Why?

My concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. It was a bony little man wearing a brown bow tie and matching sweater vest. He had fair blond hair balanced delicately on an ovalish skull. Tiny eyes were distorted behind thick glasses, and a thin mustache rested on his lip like a string of uneaten spaghetti.

"Detective Daniels?"

"Lieutenant. That's Detective Herb Benedict."

He came in without being asked. "I'm Dr. Francis Mulrooney."

"Congratulations," I said.

He stood there, expecting more. "The handwriting expert?" He flashed a grin. I held my applause and picked up the phone.

"Hello, Bill? Jack. Can you have someone run up the notes from the Jane Does? Thanks."

I motioned for Francis to have a seat, and Herb scooted his bulk to the side to let him near the desk.

"So far on the case we've --"

Mulrooney held out his palm. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know anything until I've seen the samples. It could influence my judgment."

I gave Herb a look. He returned it. The FBI was bad enough. Why not just go medieval and hire a phrenologist?

"It's always exciting to work with the police." Mulrooney grinned. His teeth were uneven. "Is this a forgery case? Never mind, don't tell me. I'd rather see if I can figure it out. Forgery fascinates me. You see, handwriting is like fingerprints, and no two samples are exactly the same. But it's also a window into the part of the brain that understands and comprehends language. Your signature changes, for example, when you're under stress or if you succumb to mental problems. So, is this a forgery case?"

A uniform walked in, carrying the notes. The first two were in cellophane envelopes, each stained murky brown with dried blood. The third was sandwiched in an old encyclopedia.

"We store it in a book in the freezer," I told Mulrooney. "The cold takes away all the moisture without ruining the physical evidence. If we let the blood dry naturally, the paper will begin to rot."

All the color drained from Mulrooney's face, making his thin blond mustache appear translucent.

"Excuse me a second." He stood and bolted for the door. The uniform shrugged and followed him out.

"Think he'll be back?" Herb asked.

"Unfortunately."

The pizza came, and Benedict attacked it with a ferocity often seen on PBS specials involving carnivores.

"Doesn't your tongue hurt?"

"Not so much anymore. I think eating all the time has sped up the healing process. Maybe it will work with your leg."

Benedict offered me a slice so stacked with toppings, it had begun to topple. I declined, consuming several aspirin instead.

Our resident handwriting expert reappeared, his cockiness replaced by a serious expression.

"I apologize." He drew his hand across his mouth. "When I got the call I wasn't told what I'd be analyzing. Is this the Gingerbread Man case?"

"Yes."

He sat back down, averting his gaze from the pizza Herb was devouring.

"I've read about it. Terrible. If I may?"

I offered him the notes, as well as a photocopy of the one left for the Tribune; the original was still at the lab. Mulrooney slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves. From his vest pocket he removed a leather case.