Crossing the parking lot to the assigned spot where his truck was parked, he tried not to dwell on the fact that he soon might own the damned farm, a place he’d sworn to avoid, where his innocence had been buried long ago. “Don’t think about it,” he told himself as he opened the door of the truck. He had a lot on his plate today, starting with the apartment near Chartres where a homicide had taken place.

Then there was the 21 Killer and the series of articles Jase hoped to write about him. With Brianna’s help, he reminded himself. He felt a stab of guilt, wondering if, as she suspected, helping her was actually just satisfying his own personal quest for a story.

Last night’s nightmare flashed through his mind as he settled behind the wheel, a weird dream where one seductive mermaid had really been two women who looked so much alike. Arianna and Brianna. Both had the ability to tug on his emotions. Both inspired gut-wrenching guilt.

“Get over it,” he told himself. He had no time for self-analysis or anything as ridiculous as trying to interpret his own dreams. He started the engine, then noticed a yellow jacket beating itself against the windshield above his dash. “Get out.” He threw the driver’s side door open and tried to scoop the bee to the side with an envelope sitting on the passenger seat, an envelope addressed to his father and containing the check Jase had promised.

At least now it could do some good.

The bee was buzzing and running into the glass, mad as hell as it bounced and hopped along the surface. Maybe just scared. Like so many people. Using the envelope, he scooped the stupid insect out the open door and wondered why he just hadn’t squashed the yellow jacket. It would have been a helluva lot easier. One bee. Who cared?

Again, he had no time for philosophy.

He had a job to do.

Bentz’s stomach turned as he slid covers over his shoes, signed in to the crime scene, and stepped into the tiny apartment off Chartres.

Within seconds a disturbing sense of déjà vu washed over him as he viewed the space with its older furniture and bars on the windows. He noticed paperback books lined up on the built-ins, the coffeepot in the kitchen filled for the next day, the smell of perfume lingering, all surrounding the reason for his being here: the dead body of a thirtysomething female victim.

She was splayed out across the neatly made bed. Half-dressed in a short skirt and open blouse, she lay there with her eyes open as if staring at the gently rotating blades of a ceiling fan positioned overhead.

He clenched his jaw, felt his stomach turn.