“Hey back atcha,” Kristi said, and her voice was a little weak, muffled by the sound of air movement, as if she were driving and trying to speak over her obstinate headset. “I just thought I’d call and offer a little moral support.”

“Really?” he asked, unable to mask his doubt. Kristi had just finished her first true-crime book. It hadn’t been picked up yet but was being looked at by several agents, one of whom had suggested Rick Bentz, as the homicide cop who had helped solve the case of a killer with vampire leanings at All Saints’ College, write an intro.

He passed.

Didn’t like the fact that his daughter was dabbling anywhere near a killer.

“Yes, really, though if you wanted to talk over the case with me, I’d be glad to listen.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Oh, Dad, come on.”

The battle they’d had all her adult life. Headstrong and as beautiful as Jennifer, her mother and Bentz’s ex-wife, Kristi had given him most of the gray hairs that were silvering his head—and prematurely, he thought. “How’s married life?”

“Oooh. Smooth segue,” she said, but wasn’t really pissed that he’d abruptly changed the subject. “I’ll tell you all about it this weekend. I thought I’d drop by and see Ginny . . . uh, you and Olivia, too.”

He grinned; she was needling him. “We’ll look forward to it. Bring Jay along.”

“I intend to.” She laughed. “You know me, Dad—I never go anywhere without my husband.”

“And you probably pump him for information, too.”

“Only when he wants sexual favors.”

“Ouch! TMI, Kristi. I’m your dad, remember?”

“My dad who has an infant. Don’t pretend you don’t know anything about sex, but, okay, let’s change the subject.”

He laughed and his eyes fell onto the list of names from St. Marguerite’s. Orphaned girls who’d been adopted from St. Elsinore’s. All young and full of life. All potential murder victims.

“I’ll call Olivia and set something up, okay?” Kristi said, and he nodded.

“Great. She’ll love it.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll see ya.”

She hung up, and he held the phone for an instant. Kristi’s life had been in danger more times than he wanted to think about, times when, because of who he was, the cop, she’d come into a killer’s sites.

He hoped to hell that was all over now.

Troubled at the thought of his daughter and her penchant for mystery and crime, he noticed that the tox screen for Camille Renard had come through on his e-mail. He scanned it and scowled when he recognized that she’d had Rohypnol in her bloodstream. Rohypnol, or “roofies” as it was called on the street, was the date-rape drug. Slipped into food or drink, the strong sedative could render a victim more than pliable, could even induce memory loss.