The Killer Wore Tights

by

Alan Brents

Text Copyright 2014

Alan Harrison Brents

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

The Killer Wore Tights is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

About the Author

One

Thursday evening

THE KILLER STRUGGLED with the decision. Not about whether to kill—the man had to die—but whether to kill the woman too.

Two victims meant two to subdue, two to silence, two to control. Two who could escape, fight back, or hurt the killer. So much less room for error.

But two victims also meant two to torture, two to watch as they writhed in agony, two to hear as they moaned and screamed. Two sets of eyes to stare into as life ebbed away.

The killer decided. It would be two.

THOUGH EXCITED AND EAGER,, the killer prepared with meticulous attention to detail.

It was the damned DNA that made everything so difficult. Burning could destroy DNA, but burning a house in the city alerts the authorities too quickly. It takes time to escape without detection.

Using ear wash, the killer scoured the wax from both ear canals, then rinsed each ear with clear saline solution—it wouldn't do to have ear wax with trapped skin cells fall into the crime scene. Then a shower and thorough body scrubbing, using unscented body wash—to prevent a victim from smelling the killer lying in wait—followed by a fifteen minute rinse.

Then a bare naked walk to the prep area—the living room section next to the front door—which had been thoroughly vacuumed and cleaned to reduce the chance of transfer. The preceding night, so any particles of dust to which skin cells might adhere would settle back to the floor.

Everything the killer would wear and take tonight was there, in boxes or bags. The killer had never touched the packages or their contents with anything other than carefully gloved hands.

IT AROUSED THE killer to stand naked in the room. To feel the slight breeze from the air conditioning vents gently caress skin. To shiver as the breeze evaporated the shower's moisture. To feel droplets fall from damp hair and glide over shoulders and chest and nipples.

The arousal intensified as the killer imagined stripping the victims naked, tautly spread-eagling their nude bodies with rope, attacking their souls with excruciating torture. With two this time, maybe ... maybe make one watch the other suffer?

But which one, the man or the woman? Both were pleasing to the eye, both loved the other. Either would be in anguish watching the other's misery, feeling impotent and powerless, waiting for their own agony.

Perhaps whisper to the first to die, as the death blow came near, that the watching lover would suffer more intensely, and for days, not hours? So that death for the first would bring, not sweet relief from pain, but despair and anguish at the horrible ordeal facing the second?

Perhaps offer the first a choice to suffer a minute more, to save the second an hour of agony? Offer that choice again and again, until the first could no longer sacrifice, and died with feelings of shame and cowardice? Then tell the second the first could have spared the second, if only the first had been stronger?

Such delicious choices.

A ROLL OF plastic sheeting stood by the door. Carefully touching only one side, the killer rolled it into the room. The side not touched was facing up, covering the areas the killer would stand on to dress or walk over to exit.

The killer stepped onto the plastic sheet. Then carefully opened a paper wrapped pack of sterile gloves, so the gloves lay exposed, each glove turned inside out at the wrist.

Using proper sterile gloving technique, the killer pulled the left glove on, bare fingers touching only the inside out part. Then used the gloved left hand fingers to pull the right glove on. Then slipped the gloved right hand fingers under the left glove's inside out section and pulled it up.

The part of the gloves touched by bare fingers was now facing inside, against the killer's skin. The killer's bare fingers had never touched the outside of the gloves.

The killer used a similar technique to pull on skintight athletic socks, long athletic tights, and a spandex athletic shirt—the type of skintight clothes a fashionable athlete might wear in cool weather. For each item, the killer rolled a portion inside out, used that portion to pull the item partly on, then slipped fingers under the inside out portion to finish pulling it on. No bare skin ever touched the killer's gloved hands or the outside of the clothes.

After being covered with a sock, each foot was placed on a new section of plastic, to prevent the socks from picking up skin cells shed in the original spot.

The clothes didn't have reflective strips—it wouldn't do to be that visible. They were medium gray rather than black—a color often used for gym wear that wouldn't scream cat burglar, but could still blend into darkness.

Over all this, the killer donned dark blue jeans and a light gray rugby style hoodie. The hoodie's front kangaroo pockets hid gloved hands. The hood obscured facial features.

The jeans and hoodie would be less memorable than athletic tights. With the backpack, the killer would look like a student carting schoolbooks home. The jeans and hoodie would come off before the killing, then, after, be donned again to hide bloodstains.

A brand new paid of cheap tennis shoes, a popular brand sold almost everywhere, completed the kill suit.

THE KILLER WAS now trembling with excitement. Eagerly anticipating torturing the victims' naked bodies. Eagerly anticipating watching the victims squirm in futile attempts to escape the pain. Eagerly anticipating hearing the victims scream into their gags.

Not just anticipating, but remembering how amazing it had been the last time. Last time the house had been isolated, with no neighbors nearby. No gag had been necessary, allowing the killer to luxuriate in the full volume sounds of the victim's screams, moans, shrieks, and pitiful pleas for mercy.

ONCE CLOTHED, THE KILLER filled a backpack with the murder kit.

1. Two hundred feet of three-eighths inch manila rope, in plastic wrapped fifty foot hanks.

2. Small aerosol spray bottle filled one-third with salt. While most houses have salt, why waste time looking that could be spent torturing?

3. Medium gray balaclava—a tight-fitting lightweight ski mask to cover the entire head except for eyes, and prevent hair and facial skin cells from falling into the crime scene.

4. Two sharp straight-edged folding knives. Two, in case one became blunted during the kills, and a fresh edge was needed.

5. Tight leather gloves—for a better grip on the rope and knives, and extra protection against ripping the surgical gloves.

6. One hundred foot roll of the most popular brand of duct tape.

7. Two police style Tasers with dart cartridges, the bulkiest items. It was annoying to have to bring two, but there were two victims to disable. The second victim wouldn't wait for a second set of dart cartridges to be loaded into the first Taser.

8. Compact semi-automatic .40 caliber pistol with foldable nylon hip holster, 1 round already chambered, the 9 round magazine filled with .40 caliber S&W hollow points. For emergencies only, not the planned kills. Three additional magazines for a total of 37 rounds. The killer thought, If I need more than 37 rounds to escape, I'm already well and truly fucked.

9. Lock rake, carefully cleaned and bleached to remove any DNA.

10. Extra sneakers and socks, to put on after the kills, to allow escape without bloodstained socks and shoes.

11. Towel to wipe the victims' blood from the killer's tights. It wouldn't prevent stains, but would soak up drops that might otherwise fall off outside the kill site, or soak through the jeans and hoodie.

12. Car-jacking tools, thoroughly cleaned to be free of fingerprints and DNA.

13. A pair of brand new narrow needle nose pliers, for grasping and pulling skin.

14. One strong magnet.

THE KILLER WALKED two miles from the house, stole a car, drove within a half mile of the kill site, and parked. It was now 8:00 p.m., full dark in December, even in Florida.

The killer walked to the kill site with the hood up. As the house drew nigh, the killer readied his magnet and lock rake. The trick is to look confident, look like I belong. This is my house, I have a right to be here.

The killer strode confidently to the door, with no furtive glances to arouse suspicion; positioned the magnet to fool the front door proximity detector's magnetic reed switch; and then opened the door with the lock rake. Once inside, the killer quickly donned the balaclava—using the same inside out technique as with the other clothes—and closed and relocked the door.

The killer reconnoitered the house, determined the bedrooms were on the top floor, and decided to hide in the smallest bedroom. Then stripped off the jeans and hoodie to shield them from blood.

In the kitchen, the killer added warm water to the aerosol spray bottle, then shook to dissolve the salt already in the bottle. A final check of the Tasers showed them to be ready—turned on, fully charged, the dart cartridges ready to fire.

The killer donned the nylon hip holster, holstered the .40, and clipped the two folding knives to the holster's webbing. Then used one of the knives to cut the plastic from the hanks of rope, so the rope could be accessed quickly.

The evil web prepared, the killer lay in wait.

Two

Thursday evening

CAL ROBERSON AND Wendy Sloan were in love. Not the desperate and aching first love of youth, but the calmer more confident love that sometimes comes after forty.

Not that the sex wasn't amazing. They both took care of their bodies—eating well and exercising regularly—and both still had almost as much energy and enthusiasm as at twenty. Plus they'd had two and a half decades since twenty to learn patience, skill, and finesse.

In their working lives, both were respected and successful professionals. Both comfortable with their success, ambitious enough to want more, confident they would achieve more.

Cal, 45, had aced law school at the University of Virginia, finishing first in his class and becoming editor of the law review. Ten years of lucrative practice in the Orlando office of a prestigious law firm, and enthusiastic participation in local affairs and politics, had put him in position to win election as a circuit court judge in Orange County, the Florida county which cradles Orlando.

He'd amassed a solid reputation as a fair and competent judge, and had twice easily won reelection. The legal elite had started bandying Cal's name about as a candidate for appointment to the Florida Fifth District Court of Appeal, a necessary stepping stone to the Florida Supreme Court.

Wendy, 47, two years Cal's senior, earned her Ph.D. in analytical chemistry from MIT at the young age of 24, then took a chemistry professorship at Boston University. She'd earned a solid reputation in the academic chemistry community refining techniques for detecting minute traces of substances. In 2005, she'd been enticed to Orlando's University of Central Florida by warmer weather, more money, and the prestige of a distinguished professorship in analytical and forensic chemistry. She'd pulled several substantial grants from the National Institute of Justice, and used them to develop more sensitive forensic chemical tests.

Along the way, Wendy had become a favored expert witness for prosecutors needing to educate juries about obscure matters of forensic chemistry. Wendy was attractive enough to appeal to jurors, but not so beautiful as to incite their envy. Her forthright manner invited trust, and she explained complicated scientific concepts in terms jurors could understand. No matter how aggressively defense attorneys attacked on cross-examination, Wendy remained calm and unflappable.

UNTIL THEY MET, Cal and Wendy had had mixed success with love.

Growing up in Virginia as a good looking kid, both brilliant and athletically gifted, Cal had racked up sexual conquests in his teens and early twenties, but none became love. He had finally fallen in love with Katy, the woman who had finished second in Cal's law school class and had served as the law review articles editor. She had been the only law school classmate who'd had a shot at denying Cal the editorship and his first place finish.

Cal had loved Katy, married her, and produced two smart and beautiful children with her. They'd had their ups and downs—both had worked long hours, and their time together was limited—but had always worked it out.

Every so often, Cal had had regrets. He had loved Katy deeply, but the physical passion wasn't the same as he'd often experienced while catting around. Sometimes he would watch Katy sleeping and think of his college roommate's theory of relationships.

Cal, his roommate had said, one of two things is needed for a man to be happy with a woman. Either he gets a warm and fuzzy feeling when he looks at her, or she takes his breath away. Either can be enough. But, Cal, my friend, if you can combine the two, and find a woman who takes your breath away, and also gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling, then you've really got something.

At the time, Cal had laughed, thinking his roommate had pulled that theory from his ass, from which he pulled most of his theories. But years later, watching Katy sleep, and feeling that warm and fuzzy feeling, he would wonder what it would have been like if Katy also took his breath away.

Katy had done extremely well at another Orlando law firm. But cancer, no respecter of professional success, had claimed her life in 2005. Cal had been left widowed with a thirteen year old son and twelve year old daughter.

Cal had grieved truly and deeply, not considering another woman for eighteen months. When he had finally dated again, he had, like so many recently divorced and widowed men, reverted to his youthful pattern of catting around. This time, however, he never lied and never misrepresented his intentions—if all he wanted from a woman was sex, he didn't lead her to believe that he wanted more.

WENDY HAD GROWN up an attractive girl in a pleasant suburb of Dallas. Like Cal, she'd been smart and athletically gifted, but not in the same ways.

Cal's strongest academic skills had been verbal—he'd excelled in English, history, social studies, writing, and languages. Wendy's had been mathematical and scientific—she'd aced calculus, analytical geometry, chemistry, biology, physics, and computer programming. While Cal had participated on the debate team and attended the mock U.N., Wendy had competed in science fairs and attended summer math and science camps.

Cal had excelled at mainstream sports, quarterbacking his high school's football team and pitching on its baseball team. Wendy had finished second in the Texas high school state swimming championships in the 400 meter women's individual medley, a demanding combination of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle. In her second sport, archery, she'd nearly qualified for the U.S. Olympic team.

Wendy had been more sexually conservative than Cal. She'd dated and been intimate with only six men through high school, college, and graduate school. The relationships had ended when the men had started to get serious, and Wendy had made it clear she had no interest in love or marriage or children until she finished her Ph.D. Some of the men had loved her, but Wendy hadn't loved them.

Two years after earning her doctorate, Wendy had married the significantly older MIT chemistry professor who'd chaired her dissertation committee. The Boston academic community had exploded with gossip and speculation. Had the romance begun when she was his student and he was married to his former wife?

In truth, they hadn't begun dating until eight months after Wendy earned her degree, which was eighteen months after his divorce. But neither had seen any profit in commenting on the rumors, assuming correctly that denials would only fan the flames. New and juicier scandals had intervened, and interest in the issue had faded quickly.

When Wendy looked back later, she realized she'd had tremendous respect and friendship for her husband, but hadn't loved him. She suspected he had felt the same, having married her mainly to assuage his widower loneliness.

So they'd had a marriage with much mutual respect and friendship, but no love, and damned little passion. There had been enough passion to produce a daughter and son, whom Wendy loved dearly, and her husband tolerated well enough.

Wendy and her husband had divorced amicably in 2004. The divorce hadn't been why Wendy had moved to Florida the next year, but had made it much easier to accept UCF's offer.

After the divorce, Wendy had, like many women after their first divorce, become more sexually adventurous. She'd experienced lots of passion and enthusiastic sex, but not yet felt the spark of love.

IN A WAY, work had brought Cal and Wendy together. Cal had attended an educational seminar designed to educate lawyers and judges about forensics—fingerprinting, ballistics analysis, DNA, trace analysis, toxicology. Wendy was presenting on forensic chemical tests.

The seminar was held mid-February in the Bahamas. It could have been held anywhere or anytime—Detroit in July, for example—but professional seminar organizers learned long ago that attendance skyrockets when a seminar is held mid-winter in a warm vacation spot. That allows attendees to take a tax-deductible vacation in a warm locale when northern residents are going stir crazy from winter cold. The attendees decide whether to bring their spouses or lovers, or prowl for affection among the locals, tourists, or other convention attendees.

Cal and Wendy had both come alone, booked several days vacation time after the seminar, and planned to canvass the seminar attendees and local bars and clubs for compatible bedmates. They'd met the first day of the seminar, chatting after Wendy's presentation, both liking the other's look and smile and aura. By the second day of the seminar, they'd abandoned the pretense of separate rooms. By the time they returned to Orlando, they were an item.

CAL AND WENDY had been dating for two years. Long enough for Cal to realize he was in love for the second time. Long enough for Wendy to realize she was in love for the first time.

For the first time, Cal was dating a woman who both took his breath away and gave him warm and fuzzy feelings. For the first time, Wendy was dating a man she respected, liked, and for which she felt intense passion.

And the sex ... damn, the sex ... it was just ... fucking ... fantastic! The first time in the Bahamas had been so powerful they'd both shivered and cried afterward in each other's arms, both shaken and amazed at the physical and emotional intensity. And it just kept getting better.

CAL AND WENDY had both met and been approved by the other's children. They'd both spent time with each other's families at the holidays, and liked what they saw.

The holiday visits had reminded Cal of another romantic theory of his college roommate. Cal, he'd said, don't ever marry a woman until you've seen her with her family at the holidays. Nothing cools romantic ardor faster than listening to 'You always loved him more,' 'Why do you always have to bring that up?,' 'Enough, already,' and 'A little early in the day to start drinking, don't you think, Uncle Ralph?'

The older Cal got, the less he thought his college roommate had pulled his theories from his ass.

Three

Thursday evening and Friday morning

CAL HAD DECIDED it was time to propose.

The night of the proposal began splendidly. After work, Cal and Wendy met in Winter Park, the prosperous city just north of Orlando, for the Morse Museum's annual Christmas in the Park. Each first Thursday of December, the museum brings its celebrated Tiffany windows outside, festively lit for the holidays, and accompanied by holiday music from Orlando's 150 member Bach Festival Choir. A grand way to open the Central Florida Christmas season.

Like New York, Winter Park calls its premier park Central Park. It's smaller than in New York—11 acres versus 840 acres—but equally beloved by the locals. As in New York, it abuts Winter Park's prime shopping areas, and parallels a street called Park Avenue.

After the festival, Cal and Wendy dined at an excellent nearby Park Avenue restaurant. Delicate and perfectly seasoned Chilean sea bass, with couscous and tender snap beans, for Wendy. Juicy and tender filet mignon, cooked to a perfect medium rare, and perfectly matched with broccoli rabe and baked potato, for Cal. All washed down by a delightful French champagne, with muted background music.

After dinner, they went back into the park, holding hands like teenagers. The park was quiet, the festival crowd having dissipated quickly, on this weeknight evening, to prepare for Friday's work or school.

Cal led Wendy to a park bench. After they sat, Cal shyly pulled a jewelry box from his pocket, and opened it to reveal a one carat brilliant cut diamond, perfectly flawless and colorless, expertly set in a polished platinum band. A traditionalist, he got down on one knee, took Wendy's hand, and said, My darling Wendy, will you marry me?

Wendy's emotions, as Cal went down to his knee, were a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Not given to public displays of emotion, she didn't squeal or gasp. She looked into Cal's eyes for a second, then leaned over and kissed him. Yes, Cal, I will marry you. She paused, then added with a wry grin, What took you so long?

To scattered applause from others in the park, and two shouts of Mazel Tov, Cal gently placed the ring on Wendy's left ring finger. Rising off his knee, he returned to his seat and hugged her. Then a longer kiss, this one more urgent and with tongue.

Several minutes of osculatory pleasure later, Cal asked, What shall we do to celebrate? A walk around Lake Eola? Some jazz and drinks downtown at the Boheme?

A direct woman, Wendy said, We could do that. Or, we could go to your place, sip some of that delicious Australian tawny port wine you have, rip each other's clothes off, and fuck each other senseless.

They went back to Cal's house.

AT 9:00 A.M. FRIDAY morning, the next day, neither Cal nor Wendy had made it to work.

This caused little concern at UCF. Like most women, Wendy had known Cal would propose before he did. She'd figured he'd either do it at the festival or on Christmas Eve—for some reason, the holidays entice men in love to propose—so had warned her research assistant to prepare to teach her Friday morning inorganic chemistry class.

The Orange County Courthouse was a different matter. Cal, currently assigned to the criminal docket, had jury selection beginning 9:00 a.m.

When Cal hadn't show up by 9:15, and repeated calls to his landline and cell phone went unanswered, his judicial assistant reported the issue to the chief judge. Not wanting to waste hundreds of potential jurors, already called and gathered at the courthouse, the chief judge hastily assigned another judge to the jury selection. Fearing foul play or accident—Cal had never missed a court hearing before—the chief judge sent a courtroom deputy to check out Cal's house.

Four

Day one of the investigation

Friday morning

ORDINARILY, DETECTIVE MATT Fleming appreciated the warmth of December days in Orlando. His partner Elizar Zachary—who went by Zar, that and Eli being the only reasonable nickname choices for someone named Elizar—usually appreciated it even more, having spent his formative years suffering long cold winters on Long Island.

Today was warm even for December—seventy-eight degrees by nine thirty, predicted afternoon high of ninety. The warmth wasn't a blessing this day. Matt and Zar had been called to a McDonald's back parking lot after an employee found a dead woman in the restaurant's dumpster.

The woman herself, dead around five or six hours, wasn't that ripe. But the dumpster was, not having been emptied since Tuesday. Fortunately Matt and Zar, as the senior pair of the four detectives called to the scene, were not doing the dumpster diving.

The woman was early twenties, with brown eyes, light olive skin, and auburn hair. A trim and well-toned athletic body contrasted with excessively large breasts. A filmy and clingy long blue dress, with very brief matching panties and bra, covered her without concealing.

It was the type of outfit a stripper wears to begin her set, then peels off slowly. But it was also the type of outfit an adventurous woman, not in the adult entertainment business, might wear to thrill a lover.

Blood had soaked the front of her dress, spreading from the bullet hole puncturing her chest slightly left of center and just below her breasts. She'd been dead long enough for the blood's thinner edges to congeal and dry and begin flaking. Matt could see no soot or stippling around the bullet hole, so the killer had probably fired from more than three feet away.

As Matt watched, a bottle fly landed on the victim's chest and crawled into the bullet hole, almost certainly to lay eggs. Other bottle flies and some ants nibbled at the still liquid parts of the blood.

The McDonald's was on South Orange Blossom Trail—OBT to Orlando locals—a few miles west and a mile south of downtown Orlando. Another mile south and OBT leaves the city limits of Orlando and enters unincorporated Orange County.

Another mile south is Harem Lounge, the first of a string of strip clubs heading south on OBT. Matt had noticed years before that the strip clubs in the Orlando area were all outside the Orlando city limits. He'd always assumed the Orlando city code was more restrictive on adult entertainment businesses, or Orlando enforced such regulations more aggressively. He'd never worked vice, so had never had a reason to know for sure.

Matt looked around at the scene. The pavement was wet. Other than the investigators, there was one set of shoe prints, which they'd already determined fit the assistant manager who'd found the body.

To the assistant manager, Matt said, Did one of your guys spray down the pavement before you discovered the body?

No. But there was rain this morning. It was still raining when I got here at six, then stopped around six-fifteen. That's when I took some garbage to the dumpster and saw the body.

The assistant manager shuddered and swallowed hard as he described seeing the body.

Matt sighed, and turned toward Zar. There goes any chance of getting footprints or car tracks.

Zar grumbled, If she's a stripper, why didn't they dump her closer to the club? Then she'd be the Sheriff's problem, not ours.

Matt cocked his head toward Zar. Who was complaining yesterday about no new murders? About getting bored working cold cases?

Zar shrugged. I'm not complaining about a new case. But I'd rather not have to tell Sarah we're schlepping around strip clubs again.

Sarah was Zar's wife. Both Zar and Sarah were Jewish, but Sarah was more conservative and traditional. Or, more precisely, Zar thought Sarah was prim and proper and conservative and traditional, and Sarah let Zar have his illusions.

Two years before, Matt and Zar had investigated the murder of a man who'd made the rounds of the local strip clubs, then come back into the Orlando city limits before being killed. They'd had to trace his steps from the night before. Zar had grumbled constantly about what Sarah would think about them going into strip clubs.

Finally, in exasperation, Matt had, in front of Zar, called Sarah and said: Sarah? Hi, Matt here. Good, good, thanks for asking. Look, Zar and I have a case where the victim hit the strip clubs before he got killed. We've got to go around to the clubs and see if he argued with anyone last night. Zar feels terrible about having to go to the clubs. I'll make sure he doesn't get in trouble.

Sarah had said, Ok, Matt. Let me talk to Zar.

Zar had listened for a moment, then said, Okay. Bye, honey. He'd returned the phone to Matt, saying, Fuck you, but amiably and with little heat.

Matt had asked, Did she tell you she'd pray you won't be corrupted by loose women and lust?

With a wry smile, Zar had said, She asked me to pick up some milk on the way home tonight. Two percent.

Two years later, Matt still wasn't sure if Zar had been telling the truth.

OTHER THAN BEING a bit warm for December, it was a beautiful Florida day—the sun shining so brightly you have to squint without sunglasses, the sky a perfect blue with wispy white clouds, a light breeze caressing your skin. The sort of day where college students blow off class for the beach and working stiffs eat lunch outdoors. The sort of day where Florida residents, forgetting how they'd cursed the sweltering heat and humidity of August, call their Northern friends to taunt them about the weather.

To Matt, it was the sort of day where, if he were off duty, he'd pull out his bicycle and commune with nature on a fifty mile bike ride.

It just wasn't the kind of day you associate with murder, or evil, or a young beautiful woman dead in a dumpster.

MATT LOOKED DOWN at the victim, still being examined by the associate medical examiner. If she's a stripper, she's a high end one. Probably not from one of the OBT clubs.

Zar was interested. Why not?

A lot of little things. Hmm—wait, let's get Brenda into this discussion. Matt looked toward the dumpster at the other pair of detectives.

The woman, Brenda Dartmouth, was a tall woman whose blue eyes, auburn hair, and pale skin hinted at an Irish heritage. She was solidly built in an attractive way, her weight coming from well-toned muscle, not fat. Her solid physique was the result of power lifting—weightlifting designed to develop power and strength, not bodybuilding designed to develop bulky muscles for show.

Matt found Brenda quite physically attractive. He found her even more attractive because she had a calm and confident presence—self-assured rather than cocky—and a keen and inquisitive intellect.

Brenda didn't have a lot of time in homicide, but had far more years of detective experience than her partner, Manuel Alvarado. It was Manuel, therefore, who was inside the dumpster with the junior crime scene tech, looking for clues and grumbling about his shoes and pants being ruined.

Manuel was an attractive man of medium height, with Hispanic features and a slight build. He was both shorter and lighter than Brenda. Matt was trying to decide whether Manuel was infatuated with Brenda or was intimidated by her.

Brenda was carefully examining the surrounding area with the senior crime scene tech, while Matt and Zar watched Dr. Neal Cannondale, an associate medical examiner, examine the body. The body had been removed from the dumpster, after pictures of it in situ had been taken from every possible angle.

Brenda, Matt called. Would you join us?

Brenda came over. What's up?

I'd like you in on this discussion. We're discussing whether she's a stripper at one of the OBT clubs.

Brenda raised her eyebrows. And I'm an expert on that issue?

Matt was unperturbed. More than we are, since you worked vice with MBI.

In 1978, the Orange County Sheriff, Orlando Police Department, and Orange County/Osceola County State Attorney's Office combined to set up the Metropolitan Bureau of Investigation, a permanent multi-agency task force intended to combat drugs, organized crime, gambling, prostitution, and adult entertainment businesses. Since its founding, most of the other Central Florida law enforcement agencies—local and state and federal—had joined the task force. Eighty-five percent of MBI investigators work on drug issues. The rest work on vice issues, meaning sex and gambling.

Matt squatted next to the victim. So here's my thought. If she's a stripper, she's too high end for the OBT strip clubs.

Brenda looked down. I think I agree, but let's hear your reasons first.

Matt nodded. First, she's too attractive for the OBT clubs. And check out her toenails and fingernails—that's a top quality manicure and pedicure.

Brenda looked more closely at the young woman. She was very attractive. If she was stripping on OBT, she'd have to be new. The higher-end clubs send scouts around all the time, and they'd quickly snap up a girl that pretty. The girl would bite. She'd get better tips at the high-end places.

Brenda knelt, asked Dr. Cannondale to hold up the young woman's right hand—detectives can't touch a victim's body until it's been cleared by the medical examiner—and peered at it closely. Brenda looked back up at Matt. "I don't know why you know this, but you're right—the manicure and pedicure