Thank you so much for the kind reviews. First and foremost, I promise not to kill off Clarice in this one. Since it does appear in an earlier timeline in the Emily/Lecter universe, she'd have to be a zombie or another similar undead character in order for me to kill her off again. LOL I believe you can only die once, dear ones. The nice PG-13 rating will probably change once the story gets going, since I have promised gore. I do so hope you enjoy.

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Afternoon, halfway around the world. A young woman stands in the Piazza della Signoria, staring up at the soaring crenellations that mark the Palazzo Vecchio. Her dark hair catches the light as it hangs straight down her back, strands of it caught floating on the passing breeze. She wears a pair of black dress slacks and a silk blouse. In her hands is a sketchpad, on which she is drawing with a piece of charcoal. She looks from pad to the Palazzo and uses the pinkie of her right hand to smudges a line. Her eyes are intense as she completes her sketch, ignoring the curious stares from other tourists that mill around her in the Piazza. A shadow comes over the pad and her lips sink into a frown as she turns to face whoever dares to take away her light.

"Excuse me, but…" she turns green eyes flaring and prepares to assault the rude person. She finds herself looking at a fine silk suit, protected by a grey overcoat. She is shorter than most people and often seems to forget the inconvenience of her height. Not losing an ounce of fury, she looks up to glare at the man. Her mind instantly seeks out details and she blinks, saving them to memory. The face is slightly shadowed by a white fedora and the eyes, which she would truly like to see, are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The nose is rather plump for his face but his red lips are curved into a smile. All of this happens in the time she pauses in her sentence, not more than a few heartbeats. "But you sir, are blocking my light."

He nods slightly and steps to her side, no longer blocking the sun's rays from her. She expects him to be like every other staring idiot she has had to shoo off today, and is surprised when he begins to apologize.

"Forgive me. I only wanted to see this." the left index finger is laid on the charcoal sketch as he speaks. She notices the metallic rasp of the voice, wonders what would cause it to be in such a state of disuse. "You have a good eye for detail."

Flattery. The one thing in the world she cannot handle. A blush works its way into her cheeks as she replies. "Thank you, sir. I'm afraid I'm not that wonderful." Self-depreciation, her common defense for everything. The man is shaking his head at her. His hand clasps the sketchpad gently.

"May I?"

"Of course." she bites her tongue, resisting the urge to again apologize for the artwork contained within. He carefully turns the pages, seeing quick studies of many of Florence's beautiful buildings. The drawing of the Ponte Vecchio bridges is very well done, and she has begun to add color to it. He nods and hands the sketchpad back to her.

"How old are you?"

How old am I? "Twenty four, sir."

He removes his sunglasses as he asks his next question, and she is startled by his eyes. "Ahhh. Tell me, have you ever seen the Duomo from the Belvedere?"

*****

The house was typical of a neat freak Clarice Starling decided upon entering. The linoleum floors sparkled as if they received a washing every day. If she ever though Ardelia was bad, this woman had her beat hands down. She walked through the house, stepping past other agents and the local law enforcement officials. The knife used in the murder had been taken form the kitchen. Well, he doesn't bring his murder weapon with him, she mused as she looked at the cut phone bill. Makes it harder for something from the crime scene to be placed with him. Julie Simms had a fully stocked kitchen and looked as if she enjoyed cooking. The book laying on the counter caught Starling's eye and she stopped to look at it. Alexandre Dumas' Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine. She had seen it before, in Dr. Lecter's cell.

"God dammit." she hissed under her breath. The memory of the man dogged her everywhere. One of the local cops in the kitchen looked up at her.

"Something wrong, Agent?" he asked. Clarice looked at him. He was young. She was once that young, and then she had met Lecter and Buffalo Bill. She shook her head and left the kitchen without further reply.

*****

The master bedroom was quiet as Starling entered it, having shooed everyone else out. She needed the silence to work in, and she paused just inside the door, looking about the room. It was pale in coloring. The walls were a bright white, complementing the pastel yellow curtains that hung over the windows. The curtains were sheer, and they billowed slightly in the breeze from the open windows. The bed was something that had obviously come form Pottery Barn or some other such chic furniture place. It was white, and two matching tables sat on wither side of it. The bed was parallel to the door and the nearest table had a lamp on it. The twenty five watt bulb still burned in it, suggesting that it had been turned on by either the boyfriend or someone else. The someone else category consisted of two people in Starling's mind: Julie Simms or her killer. She would put money on the killer.

All of the other bedrooms so far had had overhead lights, two of them were on ceiling fans. They had also been on when law enforcement had arrived on scene. All three women were unwed, and two had boyfriends that they were serious with. All were five feet three inches tall and weighed in at under one hundred twenty-five pounds. Three of the four had blonde hair, the first victim had red, but her driver's license picture and the color noted on it indicated that it was originally blonde. Okay, that meant the guy had to know or have met these women at one time or another. Probably had seen their driver's licenses as well. That narrowed the number of possible places of employment to the hundreds. Nothing there.

All of the houses had been neat. Well kept by either the women themselves or a weekly housekeeper. Nothing was unusual in the houses, no kinky sex toys or anything like that. No porno tapes stashed in the video cabinets or magazines beneath the beds. Normal American girls who worked hard for their money and enjoyed it. None of them had belonged to a gym, but number two had been in a tennis club three months before her murder. Nothing so far tying them together except for hair color, height, and weight. This was going to be a hard one, and Clarice resigned herself to the thought. She riffled through the closet, seeing clothing from the Gap, but nothing outrageously expensive. Well, there was a pair of Prada sandals on the floor and a tiny Gucci handbag. Her splurge items, rewards for herself.

She brushed her skirt as she rose from the closet, once again looking around the room. She sighed, trying to run events through her head. Part of her wished that Dr. Lecter would suddenly appear to help and harass her. It was definitely going to be a long day.

*****