Peter Spencer, Private Investigator, a man who specialized in shady surveillances and questionable background checks, sat in his twelve-by-twelve office, chewing on an unlit Dutch Masters cigar. He pulled the envelope out of his inside pocket, tore it open, and poured the stack of hundred-dollar bills on his desk. Oh, how he loved Ben Franklin.

There was a time when Peter J. Spencer III occupied a plush suite atop an executive office building and employed a staff of ten. That was before his wife filed for divorce and took nearly everything but his underwear. California, at least in theory, was supposed to be a community-property state, unless you hired the right attorney. And that’s exactly what Helen had done. She had brought new meaning to the cliché, “Took him to the cleaners.”

When his business collapsed, he decided that he could make more money catering to clients with a shady agenda. Why? Because he could pretty much set his fees ridiculously high. And most clients would pay anything to get what they wanted. What he found most curious was the fact that nearly all of his clients were wealthy. Not six-figure wealthy, obscenely wealthy. This peculiar fact lead Spencer to believe that the super-rich were all dubious characters.

He fired up his desktop computer and waited patiently for the system to boot up. PI work had really evolved over the last decade. He remembered the days when it would take weeks, if not months to gather background and family-related information. Back then, a PI really earned his money. The Internet had opened up a whole new world. In this day and age, no identity was safe, nor could a person manage their affairs privately. The world had become a melting pot of names, dates, places, and people, each and every one of them as transparent as Saran wrap—if you knew where to look. The information he had uncovered with just a few clicks of his mouse and a valid credit card could make the CIA jealous.

Staring at the computer screen, Spencer felt overwhelmed with curiosity. Why was his new client, “Mr. John Smith,” so afraid to divulge his identity? Why did he want so much information on a homicide detective? Spencer had promised the mysterious client total discretion, but who would find out if the PI conducted his own little covert operation?

Spencer went into his favorites menu and clicked on www.anyfamilyhistory.com. He typed “Samantha Rizzo” in the first field, added the city and state, then waited for the Web site to perform its magic.

Sami pulled into the precinct parking lot and sat in her car for a few minutes. She expected that Captain Davidson and Police Chief Larson would bushwhack her the moment she walked in the door, demanding to know what progress she’d made in the investigation. Thus far, she had little to share with them. Soon the pressure would be unbearable.

All serial killers shared certain characteristics. Sami searched her brain, trying to remember everything she could about Simon, hoping that it might trigger something she’d overlooked. She remembered their dinner, the time she’d spent locked in his Room of Redemption, how he’d kidnapped Angelina, the long conversations they’d had trying to outwit each other, his deceptive charm.

She was just about to step out of the car when it hit her like a Louisville Slugger. In one clarifying moment, two years of confusion, countless sleepless nights, overwhelming fear, and an inability to end this dark chapter in her life came into full focus. She now understood why she couldn’t let go. Why Simon had such a firm grip on her. Why she couldn’t purge the haunting memory from her thoughts. Why forgiving him fell short. Simon hadn’t abducted Angelina and Sami the way he had the other four women. Sami’s reckless heroics, her ego-driven desire to solve this case completely on her own, with no backup and no viable plan, had placed Angelina and her in a life-threatening situation. It was not Simon who had placed her in harm’s way. She had been the architect of her own near-demise.

For over two years, she’d misunderstood her emotions and it had quietly tortured her. Her guilt, hidden to the point that she lived in denial, never allowed her to take responsibility for her reckless actions. And the one factor that made the situation so utterly unbearable was the painful fact that Sami had not only placed herself in a dangerous situation, she had also jeopardized Angelina’s life, the one person she loved and cherished more than anyone else. Sami now understood that her inability to confront this issue head-on served as a roadblock to her recovery.

It all made sense.

She had learned through a year of intense therapy that the first step toward healing an open wound was to first acknowledge that you actually have one, and step two was to take responsibility, something she hadn’t done. For over two years, she had pointed an accusing finger at Simon, when she should have pointed it at her reflection in the mirror.

She stepped out of the car and felt light on her feet, as if a yoke had been removed from her shoulders and neck. She didn’t expect that this sudden revelation in and of itself would close the chapter. She had lots of work to do. More sessions with Doctor J. But for the first time since her ordeal, she eagerly welcomed a modest sense of peace.

“I think it’s time for us to kiss and make up. Don’t you?” Nicole said.

Julian had just stepped out of the shower. He stood in the bathroom doorway, toweling off his body, his hair dripping on the travertine floor. Nicole lay on the bed, just awake from a short nap. This was the kind of workday Julian loved. Two early-morning surgeries and home by noon. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he took advantage of it.

Nicole sat up and let her robe fall off her shoulders, exposing a completely tanned, golden bronze body with not one bikini line. Julian studied her carefully, pleased that her personal trainer had earned his hefty fee.

“Come over here,” Nicole ordered.

A bit skeptical, Julian sauntered toward the bed, bath towel wrapped around his waist and legs. At first, he assumed that for whatever reason, Nicole was uncharacteristically horny today, but even so, he had no hope for more than another hundred-yard dash. He did, however, see an unusually playful look in Nicole’s eyes.

When she sat on the side of the bed, he noticed that her Brazilian bikini wax was gone and she was now cleanly-shaved. How many times had he tried unsuccessfully to convince her to completely shave? Why now? Was she extending a rare invitation to make love without the hang-ups and inhibitions, or was it business as usual with a little twist?

Nicole slid her hand inside the towel and gently stroked him. His body responded immediately. Still uncertain of her intentions, Julian stood frozen.

“I’ve been such a bitch lately,” she admitted. “It’s as if I’ve had my period for six months. I think it’s time I make it up to you.”

He had no expectations. Based on past experiences, how could he? She had trained him well, and he’d been down this path before. He guessed that she would lie on her back like a corpse, let him have his way with her, and like a well-practiced routine, the encounter would be over with no fanfare and no surprises. He believed hookers called it a “straight lay.”

“Would you like to try something different?” she offered.

This heightened his curiosity.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, an air of reservation in his voice.

“How do you want me?”

A loaded question, he thought. If he told her the truth, surely she’d think her husband was a depraved pervert. “What are my options?”

Nicole smiled a mischievous smile he had never seen before. She stroked him with more resolve. “I’m feeling a bit naughty today. In fact, I’m feeling wicked. You can fuck me any way your little heart desires.”

Her comment caught him totally off guard. Rachael, formerly referred to as Redhead, had said something similar to him, and he had given her everything. He didn’t want to question Nicole’s supposed willingness to accommodate him in any way he desired, but he guessed there would be limits to her naughtiness. “Are you serious?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“I want to tie your wrists to the bed and take you from behind.” An image of his cousins, Rebecca and Marianne, flashed through his mind. He waited for a harsh response.

“Sounds interesting. One question though. When you say ‘behind,’ are you talking—”

“Yes.” He didn’t let her finish.

“Will it hurt?”

He shrugged. “Never done it.”

There was a long silence.

“Go get two of your neckties.”

Totally aware that Nicole had never done this before, Julian’s rhythm was slow and gentle at first and he proceeded cautiously. But as his excitement heightened, as memories of his cousins’ abuse illuminated in his mind, his actions were more forceful.

“That hurts,” Nicole almost yelled.

He ignored her and continued thrusting without restraint or concern for her comfort.

“Stop!” she yelled. “You’re fucking hurting me.”

Without awareness or forethought, totally involuntary, Julian grasped Nicole’s shoulders and lost all control. Now his actions were borderline violent. His excitement grew to a wildly familiar level. He could see the shadowy shed and hear his cousins moaning.

This is for you, Marianne.

This is for you, Rebecca.

Crying uncontrollably now, helplessly trying to stop Julian, Nicole frantically struggled to free her wrists from the headboard. “Please, Julian.” Her voice was barely audible.

Suddenly, the moment Julian climaxed, reality returned. Nicole collapsed on the bed and began to cry hysterically.

He had no idea what to say.

Sami walked into the precinct and headed straight for Detective Osbourn’s desk. He had a telephone pressed to his ear and rocked back and forth in the chair. When he spotted Sami, he acknowledged her with a quick wave. He held the telephone away from his ear, but standing a few feet away she could still hear whoever was on the other end of the line speaking loudly.

Osbourn covered the mouthpiece. “Judge Foster,” he whispered. “And he ain’t happy.”

Sami gestured for him to give her the phone.

“Judge Foster, Detective Rizzo just walked in. Please hang on.” He handed the phone to Sami and mouthed, Good luck.

“This is Detective Rizzo, Judge.”

“Why did I have to read in the newspaper that you are now heading the serial killer investigation? What happened to Detective Diaz?”

“He got called away to a family emergency.”

“What could possibly be more important than finding my daughter’s killer?”

“I can understand your concern, Judge, but I am perfectly capable of taking over.”

“Have you found him yet? Is the son of a bitch behind bars?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“You’d better be afraid, Detective. Afraid for your job. Detective Diaz convinced me to give my consent for a thorough autopsy, and even though it went against my better judgment, I agreed.” He huffed. “I let them fillet my daughter like a laboratory animal and what did it yield? Did it get you even one millimeter closer to apprehending this maniac?”

“We’re piecing lots of things together right now, and I really believe we’ll arrest this guy soon.” If only she could believe her own words.

“Don’t patronize me, Detective. I’ve been in this business way too long. Do you have any suspects at all?”

“Not at this time.”

“So, thus far, four young people have been brutally murdered, and you don’t even have a lead?”

“I truly understand your frustrations, Judge Foster, however—”

“Frustrations, Detective? Let me make my frustrations perfectly clear. If this monster isn’t behind bars in the next week, I strongly suggest you update your résumé. Is that clear enough?”

Sami heard a click.

Osbourn rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “So, Detective Rizzo, how was your day?” He grinned like a crazed chimpanzee.

“Oh, I’ve had better. But then again, I’ve had worse.” She leaned against his desk and folded her arms. “I don’t suppose you made any headway today.”

He shook his head. “All we’ve got is Katie Mitchell’s description of this guy. The autopsies yielded nothing we can sink our teeth into, except that the perp is probably some renegade doctor. Where do we go from here?”

“We pray, Detective Osbourn. We pray.”