Ricky Don Dorton had died bare-chested. I could see two gold chains in the folds of his neck, and the Marine Corps emblem on his right upper arm, the wordsSEMPER FIcircling below.

Larabee scanned the police report.

“Wel , wel . Mr. Richard Donald Dorton.”

“Son of a bitch.” Slidel spoke for us al .

Larabee handed the paper to me. I stepped close to Jansen so we could read together.

Larabee asked Hawkins, “You just bring him in?”

Hawkins nodded.

According to the report, Ricky Don was found dead in his bed in an uptown motel.

“Dorton checked in with a woman around one-thirtyA.M.,” Hawkins said. “Desk clerk said they both looked hammered. Maid found the body about eight this morning. Knocked, got no answer, figured the room had been vacated. Poor thing’s probably looking through the want ads even as we speak.”

“Who caught the case?” Slidel asked.

“Sherril and Bucks.”

“Narco.”

“Room held enough pharmaceuticals and hypodermics to stock a Third World clinic,” said Hawkins.

“Suppose Dorton’s midnight companion was Sister Mary Innocent working to save his soul?” Slidel asked.

“Desk clerk suspected the woman was a hooker,” said Hawkins. “Thought Dorton had been there before. Same deal. Late-night checkin. Floozy date.”

“Get hopped. Get lucky. Get a room.” Larabee.

“Guess Ricky Don’s luck ran out.” Slidel tossed the report onto the body bag.

I watched the paper slip to the gurney and settle against Ricky Don’s pricey gold neckwear.

Before his departure, Ryan extracted a promise that I would discuss the previous day’s e-mails with Slidel or Rinaldi. Though my anxiety had diminished considerably overnight, my nerves were stil on edge. I was inclined to view the messages as the work of some warped cyber-moron, but had promised myself not to let fear alter my life. Business as usual. But I agreed with Ryan on one point.

If the threat was real, Katy was also at risk.

I’d tried to caution my daughter on the night of her party, but Katy’s reaction had been to scoff at the e-mails. When I’d persisted, she’d become annoyed, told me my job was making me paranoid.

Twenty-something, bul etproof, and immortal. Like mother, like daughter.

In the privacy of my office, I described the pictures of Boyd, Katy, and myself. I acknowledged yesterday’s terror, today’s continuing uneasiness.

Rinaldi spoke first.

“You have no idea who this Grim Reaper is?”

I shook my head.

“What Ryan and I could make out from the AOL tracking information was that the messages were sent to my mailbox at UNCC through a couple of re-mailers, then forwarded from the university to my AOL address.”

“That last part your doing?”

“Yes. I have al my e-mail forwarded.” I shook my head. “You’l never trace the original sender.”

“It can be done,” Rinaldi said. “But it isn’t easy.”

“The pictures began on Wednesday morning?” Slidel asked.

I nodded. “Probably taken with a digital camera.”