“I don’t know a damned thing about these killings, Jack. I’ve told you I’ve been trying to forget that part of my life, stop following the cases.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, you thought I’d just said I’d stopped. I know he’s killed four people in the past week or so, and that the last one was strangled.”

“Four states. Four methods. That’s all I know.”

“Shit, we really are starting from ground zero, aren’t we?”

Once we were on the highway, Jack handed me a bag. I reached in, pulled out a wig and sighed.

“Figures. Get a guy to buy a wig, and he’s going to go blond every time.”

“Small store. Two choices. Blond or red.”

“I like red.”

“Fire-engine red.”

“Cool.”

“Be thankful I didn’t pick clothing. Almost did.”

“What were you going to get? Miniskirt and fishnets?”

I put on the wig, then looked at the rest of my outfit. I wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a denim jacket—an all-purpose ensemble that, with the right accessories, could run the gamut from preppy-casual to biker-chick-trashy. Normally, I’d fall somewhere in the middle: the nature-girl look, with wash-and-wear hair, fading summer tan and tinted lip gloss. Given Jack’s choice of disguise, more makeup was a must. I opened my makeup case, applied enough to scare myself, then took a tissue and pared it back a layer or two.

“Good?” I asked.

Jack glanced over and grunted. Not the most enthusiastic endorsement, but at least he didn’t say I looked so much better in a platinum wig and half-pound of makeup.

“One thing missing,” he said.

“Stilettos? Or a whip?”

His mouth twitched as he passed me a heavy wrapped bundle.

I unwrapped it to find a Glock 33. “Oooh. Serious bondage gear!”

“Got a waistband holster. Should fit under your jacket. Keep it on, all times.”

I found the holster and slipped into it, then double-checked my makeup application in the visor mirror, making sure the faint, thin scar on my neck was hidden. “Not bad. I have to work on my aging techniques, though. I can never get it right. You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

He made a noise in his throat that I took for agreement, then turned into a strip mall so we could get some research material.

Joyce

Joyce

“I can try, but…”

The dry-cleaning clerk shrugged, bit back a yawn. Given that it was barely 6:30 in the morning, the yawn and the heavy-lidded eyes could be excused, but Joyce knew it wasn’t lack of sleep that was causing the younger woman’s attention to wander. She just didn’t give a damn.

“Look,” Joyce said. “You opened five minutes ago, so you can’t possibly be overbooked yet. Your sign says you offer same-day cleaning. I need same-day cleaning.”

“We are overbooked. With regular customers.” A slow quarter-smile. “If you were a regular customer…”