Chapter Two

Jacob was in love.

Okay, maybe it wasn't love. Maybe it was pure 'fire-in-your-groin', 'wanna-pound-her-until-she-screams' lust, but at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, he really didn't care to see the difference.

Most reporters, male and female, knew the common sense that came with all night stakeouts at the City Morgue. Sensible shoes. Clothes that breathe. The ability to pick up a microphone at a seconds notice and run as fast you could to the hot story lead.

She seemed to take everything he knew about reporting and give it a nice 'screw you'. Rounding the corner of the mortuary, she gave the pack of reporters a small smirk before clicking her way toward them. The stilettos were high, setting off a shapely calf and an almost too tight black skirt that did things to her ass that were... well, they inspired a lot of creativity. Her black blazer fluttered dangerously open, and the v-neck she wore underneath molded to her breasts so beautifully it was like it wasn't even there.

Jacob almost dropped his microphone.

The dark red hair hung down in corkscrew ringlets, framing her face, and as she sauntered over, she gave no indication about the stir she caused. Her press badge displayed on her chest, she looked like some proud peacock, and when she passed him, in a whiff of CKOne, the barely there tilt of her eyebrows before she looked away told him she knew what she was doing.

Oh yes, she knew.

The stakeout had been proving less than fruitful, ABC News Anchorman Jacob Wriley would have called it a night, had his editor not threatened to hang him by his balls in front of the entire office.

As a result, here he was, with twenty other unsuccessful reporters, waiting for a stupid statement that would probably tell them what they all already knew. This wasn't where the story was, and Jacob was impatient to move on to the Police Station.

But the little red-headed vixen apparently hadn't gotten the memo. She walked, trailing her cameraman behind her like a puppy on a string, microphone hanging daintily in her hand (and if that didn't give him some embarrassing visuals, he didn't know what did), heading toward the steps, where the police officer was waiting.

"John," she drawled, her voice carrying a little bit of husk to it. "How are you?"

The police officer looked startled. "Do I know you, ma'am?"

She smiled. Jacob waited with baited breath. "No. Would you like to?"

He coughed. The police officer shuddered, and she smiled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so informal. I was just hoping to ask you for a couple questions."

"You know I'm not gonna say anything until we get the official word from the coroner."

Jacob edged forward, nearly bumping shoulders with Erick Santeros from NBC, to get closer.

The red-haired vixen threw a smirk back at her cameraman, who shifted under the weight of the camera and shrugged.

"Roberto, go get the equipment from the van," she said. "We might be here a while." Shouldering the camera, Roberto did. Turning back, she studied the police officer. With a long manicured arm she pulled the glass frames from her face, tilting her head sweetly. "Don't tell me you don't know anything."

"Ma'am..."

"It's just a couple questions," she purred.

He pulled at his collar, hands moving to settle uncomfortably on his waist. "Now, ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to move back there with all of them other..."

Jacob guessed that's when he realized that every other reporter was suddenly six inches behind her.

Looking back, she arched an eyebrow at the attention, and looked back to him. "Tell you what," she said decidedly. "I'll just... pull a couple things from what I know, maybe, you know, state them out loud, and you can just..." her finger swept across his eyebrow gently. "Rub your eye if it's a yes, maybe..." her hand now circled his gun, fingertip smoothing over the butt. "Clench that real tight if that's a no. How's that sound?"

"Ma'am..." Jacob had to give the police officer credit for his willpower. With her hand massaging his gun like that, Jacob would have dropped to his knees and begged for mercy about five minutes ago.

"I'm sure me and the boys here will be... really happy. Won't we?" she queried behind her. Immediately Jacob pushed forward.

"That's right, we would, John."

"Come on, John. We've been out here all night!"

"Give us a break."

She smiled, hands on her hips, and indicated behind her. "I don't even have my camera man. Off the record. Strictly. And John?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'd be the happiest."

He swallowed. Jacob gave him his best smile, pulling out his microphone eagerly.

John finally nodded.

--

The crowd began to go a little nuts, as the cameraman trudged around the building with his camera.

The bushes at the end of the mortuary were a welcome place to rest the weight of the camera, and this he did gratefully, pulling off the backpack and pawing through the contents.

With a quick glance at the crowd of raucous reporters with his in the middle, he quickly unsnapped the camera case, and pulled out a long bow.

It took two seconds to tap the second story window, another three to pull herself up, and thirty more to unlock it.

Alex Munday pulled off the mask, stretching under the crack she had made and sliding into the darkened hallway. Carefully, she unzipped the overalls, shaking out her hair as she did.

"Get in the kitchen," she whispered. "Bun's in the oven."

Two steps, and she was pressed against the wall. With a sharp intake, she listened carefully, ducking quickly to the other side and glancing back toward the wall.

The all black of her clothes made it easy to blend in, but Alex never took chances.

Hair was quickly pulled back into a pony tail, the badge was efficiently stuck on the appropriate position on her chest, and with her shoulders thrown back, and a severe expression now painted on her face, Alex Munday stepped to the elevator, pressed the button, and stepped in.

The mortuary was surprisingly deserted. Most of the crowd had gathered in the coffee room.

As famous as Annabeth Torres was, Alex decided, it wasn't exactly refreshing to be near her dead body.

It seemed to change things.

Still, the white lab coat was shrugged on. With a quick breath, she turned the knob and entered the cold room.

In her ear, the tinny rasp of Dylan and the other reporters became static-y, almost too loud for this place.

Alex paused, taking a moment to glance back at the closed door before heading straight to the compartment marked 'A. Torres'.

This could have been Jason.

The thought made her clench her fingers against the handle. Her eyes closed with a shuddering breath.

"Alex," she whispered. "Get a grip."

With a tug, she pulled out the body.

The clash of metal rolling on pins was grating on her ears, but suddenly, there she was, naked with wide, lifeless eyes.

Lifting a recorder from her pocket, Alex whispered, "Annabeth Torres. Age thirty-two."

Moving around the body, Alex glanced over it. Annabeth Torres. "Cause of death appears to be two gunshot wounds below the left sternum." Her fingertips gently prodded the holes. "Entrance wound is clean, with a rim of abrasion surrounding the wound, indicating the shot came from more than four feet away." She clicked off the recorder, and took a breath. "Holes are smaller, possibly a nine-millimeter-"

"Looks like a Luger to me."

Dylan's voice, interjected over the previous silence, almost startled Alex. The red-haired Angel was frowning, eyes locked on Alex from behind the fake 'Librarian-Whore' glasses, as she liked to call them.

"You okay?" she asked after a minute.

Alex didn't smile. Her hand eased off the recorder and she nodded. "Fine."

Dylan gave her a searching gaze, but gratefully, said nothing. Alex was glad for that. Unlike Natalie, who was full of well intentioned hugs and the need to talk, Dylan's support was more of the strong, silent, never press type.

Moving forward, and squeezing her friend's shoulder, Dylan took the lead. "Like I said, Luger."

"You think?" Alex prodded the hole.

"Almost positive. Which would make this weird."

Alex nodded, hands spread out as she squinted. "German. Not a very popular gun for assassins."

"Well... one did use it." Dylan's tone was odd. Her face was purposely on the body when she remarked, "The Thin Man used a Luger."

The Thin Man.

That was a subject Alex was never sure how to broach. She never quite believed what she saw on that rooftop. Dylan's penchant for falling for the bad guy had taken the weirdest turn ever when she kissed him, and even after he fell, Alex was still left trying to process the glimpse of what she had seen.

Dylan had never mentioned it again, but Alex hadn't forgotten. How could she?

Her eyes suddenly traveled down to Dylan's cleavage. A familiar looking silver medallion nestled between her breasts.

"He was no regular assassin," she finally settled for saying.

"Well, neither is this guy," Dylan said, almost a beat too late. "He's shooting in the chest."

Alex glanced down. Of course. How could she have missed that?

Meeting Dylan's eyes, she almost smiled. Clicking on the recorder, she began, "Gun shot wounds are believed to be from a nine millimeter Luger. Shots in the chest indicate it's not a professional sniper, which would in turn make this-"

"Personal," Dylan finished. They smiled grimly at each other. "Let's start with people she knows."

When the door clicked, the doorknob turning, neither was prepared for it.

--

Marlin Griffith was an ordinary man with a less than ordinary job.

No one ever set out to examine dead bodies for a living, but someone had to.

It was his job and he was good at it. But he was never exceptional, and his job, never more than normal.

Even today, he was told to wait until the medical examiner came. He wasn't even trusted to do a proper autopsy when it came to Annabeth Torres.

Black shoes squeaking, he turned the knob and stepped into the office.

Hmm. Someone had already left the body open.

Coming forward, he stepped forward, he peeled back the cloth.

"Mr. Griffith?"

With a yelp, Marlin leaped back, nearly tripping on Torres as two women stood in front of the doorway. He hadn't even heard the door open.

The one in the lab coat came forward. "My name is Tracy Yang, this is Detective Jayne," she indicated behind her. The red-head with the glasses nodded primly. "I wasn't aware that this case required your services."

"They all require my services," Marlin said stiffly. "Geez, scare the hell outta me why doncha."

Yang came forward, eyes on the body before she flickered up to him. "The Medical Examiner should be here shortly. Everything that needs to be done he is fully capable of doing."

"I'm just trying to save him some time."

"He doesn't need time, he needs a proper work space," Yang snapped.

Marlin blinked. Geez. What a bi-yatch.

"Look, Ms. Yang-"

"Dr. Yang."

"Dr. Yang, this is my office, and I'll thank you to leave. Let the Medical Examiner discuss it with me-"

"Mr. Griffith." Detective Jayne stepped forward. "We have strict orders here. Now I don't want to intrude upon your office, not at all. But this is clearly a sensitive case-"

"I know what kind of case it is-"

"And the Examiner was hoping for your help," she finished.

Marlin blinked. "He does?"

Yang rolled her eyes. "I'm going to get some coffee," she grumbled.

Jayne gave a smirk when the door slammed behind her. "Don't mind her. She's a little jealous."

Marlin grinned happily. "Hell, I'd be too."

Jayne smiled. "Now. About this body..."

--

The vintage Mercedes convertible was hardly a car that a Medical Examiner's Assistant could afford on her salary, but no one seemed to care.

Alex waited, pulling the scrunchy out of her hair, examining the rear view mirror.

Annabeth's lifeless eyes, withered where before they glowed, made her repress a shudder.

The opening of the car door, threw her focus, as Dylan slipped in, slamming it closed.

"So?" Alex asked, shooting her a smile.

"What we thought. Bullets were still in there." She gave a grin as she held up a small roll of clay. "Got the imprint."

"Great," Alex agreed. "I'll examine it in the lab when we get back."

"Definitely within twenty feet," Dylan added.

Alex curled out of the parking lot, cutting into traffic. "To make that shot and not get caught requires some skill."

"Or luck," Dylan mused. Alex glanced over. In her thought, Dylan's palm had snuck to the small silver charm, and she was caressing it idly.

Alex's glare seemed to unnerve her, because she stopped soon after.

--

Some would say that it was almost damned unwise to go running in the middle of the night down Hollywood Blvd.

Even more unwise for a golden haired girl with a golden haired dog.

Still, this runner didn't quite care. She liked the adrenaline, and the view.

Hollywood was so different from home. It was always surprising. Though she preferred the peaceful tranquility of the beach, she had to admit, she understood why Dylan and Alex made their homes (or hotel, in Dylan's case) here in Hollywood.

Spike ran easily beside her, tongue lolling out in a happy pink trail, looking up at her adoringly.

Slowing to a stop, Natalie took in a breath. The street was nearly deserted. Flashing police squad cars were parked around the Chinese Theatre, but the officers that were guarding the area seemed bored, distracted.

The reporters had left with the crowd to the mortuary, and already, this place seemed almost forgotten.

Tomorrow, rosaries, flowers and candles would likely lie where Annabeth fell.

For now, Natalie believed for the first time, she was truly dead.

Kneeling down, Natalie ruffled Spike's hair, kissing the top of his head distractedly, and glancing at the scene blocked off by the yellow tape.

"Allright baby," she whispered. "Be an angel and do your job." She nudged Spike to the tape. "No, doggie! Don't go in there!" Spike sank down on his haunches and smiled happily. Natalie smiled stiffly. She tried again. "Come on Doggie! Don't go in there and make me go in after you!" Spike gave her a lick on the ear.

Natalie sighed. "Well..." she said, under her breath, "Angels don't get made over night."

Pulling him into her body, she took a breath. "No, Spikey! NO!" With a quick glance at the officers, Natalie slid into a roll, ducking under the tape, and out of sight into the corner of the theatre.

Spike truly was a natural Angel.

He jumped out of her arms, yelping happily as he scuttled over the cement hand and feet prints of the stars.

Natalie glanced back at the squad cars. The police hadn't noticed her, yet.

The red carpet, previously basked in light, was now clothed in darkness.

Stepping up to it, Natalie knelt down. The blood was still there, wet and dark.

Paparazzi pictures exploded before her eyes. There was Annabeth. The way the blood seeped, it was easy to remember the position where she fell.

Natalie closed her eyes, hands tinting the blood. Sucking in her breath, she opened her eyes.

"There," she whispered.

Rising from her haunches, she stepped forward.

Here now, she could see it. There were the press of people. From here, Annabeth would be the star. She would smile, the cameras flashing from here, people shouting and screaming her name...

It would be chaos, and here, the gun would glint, and cameras would flash and...

Natalie looked down.

Pulling a fluorescent light from her fanny pack, she grinned. "Bingo."

There they were.

Pulling the recorder from her pack, she whispered, "Suspect wore black boots. Doc martins." Her eyes narrowed. "Trendy little murderer, aren't you?"

"What are you doing?"

A pair of black boots suddenly stepped into view. Natalie looked up, and up, and up.

There he was. An officer stared menacingly down at her.

"I uh... my dog!" She smiled widely. "There he is!" Standing up, she ran for her dog, scooping him up. Spike squirmed happily. Giggling, she shrugged helplessly. "Sorry! He just ran in here, and I had to grab him, and-"

The officer narrowed his eyes. "Get out of here."

Her eyes drifted down to the black boots. "Sure! No problem!"

He grunted, and walked away.

"Thanks!" Smile disappearing, Natalie moved quickly, heading toward the yellow tape when her footsteps faltered.

In the distance, a corner of an unnamed street, a fading street sign blinked once, and suddenly, he was there.

Billowing in a cloud of smoke, the light blinked once more, and he flashed into view again, the cigarette moving from his face in a graceful arc.

Natalie's breathed sucked in.

"The Thin Man?" she whispered.

The light flickered, and suddenly he was gone.

--

In a dark alley off of Hollywood, after Highland and before La Brea, was one of the newest HotSpots in Los Angeles.

Secluded, and almost unrecognizable, only those who knew which alley to turn in, which decrepit to pause at, found their way inside the doors.

It was for those with names. Celebrities who mattered. People who had money to burn.

Already, the crowd was forming.

Already, the beautiful people were coming in droves.

The killer blew in a drag of his cigarette, dropping it on the floor and rubbing it out with his foot.

With a sharp glint and a narrow smirk, he slid into the shadows.

Natalie was moving toward the alley when a vintage Mercedes sped through the street.

She paused, gathering her big puppy to her when the car suddenly swerved into a u-turn, sliding into the curb with a screech.

She smiled happily, giving the occupants a cheerful wave as she dumped the dog into the backseat.

Immediately, Spike yelped and slid into Dylan's lap.

Dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black leather jacket, Dylan looked more herself.

"Well?" Natalie asked, slipping into the front seat.

"Not a professional, as far as we can see," Dylan said quickly.

"He used a luger," Alex elaborated, using the moments they were stopped to pull on the appropriate boots. "And he shot in the chest."

"A sniper would go for the head," Natalie nodded. "He was close to her, in the crowd." She once again looked back at the alley.

Alex gave her a glance. "What?"

"What would you say if I said I had seen a ghost?"

Dylan frowned. Pushing the puppy off her lap, she leaned toward the front seat. "I'd wonder what the hell you were on."

Alex bit her lip. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Where?" she asked.

Natalie motioned to the alley. "Just a hunch."

Dylan gave Alex a quick glance. "Let's go."

Raising the car hood, Natalie gave Spike a quick kiss before pushing him back into the car. "Just be a minute, sweetie."

Dylan's eyes were narrowed as she stepped into the darkened alley. With Natalie on her left, and Alex on her right, her only concentration needed to be on the front.

"A ghost?" she whispered.

"I... " Natalie trailed off.

Dylan sucked in her breath. Her hands clenched into fists. Alex's hand fell to her shoulder, a comforting squeeze.

"The Dancing Harlot."

"Excuse me?"

Dylan grinned, motioning with a palm to the crowd no more than fifty feet away, nestled around a small building. "The Dancing Harlot."

"Hollywood's latest exclusive slummy hotspot," Alex elaborated.

"Oh." From the corner of her eye, Dylan could see Natalie almost blush. "Sorry. I should have known that." She looked closer, and suddenly she froze. "There."

Shaking the bemused smile from her face, Dylan glanced to where Natalie was pointing.

Suddenly, everything inside of her slammed together hard, nearly choking her, forcing her to breathe heavily.

In her clenched fists, her manicured nails nearly drew blood, and her heart, beating previously in an easy, nice pattern, continued to rumble against her.

"What the..."

A dark, thin figure walked toward the crowd. He was trailing in smoke, lifting a cigarette into his mouth. In his right hand, he carried a cane, and he was handling it easily, nearly twirling it.

"Dylan..."

She heard the warning, the small note of almost fear in Alex's voice as she stood, stiff with shock.

"No," she whispered.

In the crowd, the smoke was still visible.

Natalie kept moving, and Alex, grabbing onto her hand, pulled her with them.

Forced into movement, she forced herself to start breathing again, but she no longer thought. Everything she did, everything she felt was now laced with what had to be pure instinct, because pure logic told her it couldn't be true.

He was dead. She saw him die.

A scream rose from the crowds, a painful yelp that was followed with, "He pulled my hair!"

Oh, God...

"Dylan!"

But it was too late. Instinct had taken over, and suddenly she was running, as far as she could to the crowd.

Already, he had broken away, moving with that sprinted gait that seemed to remind her of a gazelle.

She pounded hard and fast, weaving through the people, pushing them aside, flying over the pavement.

"Dylan!"

Natalie swung her arms, breathing to try to catch up, but the screams continued, and suddenly Alex had her, nearly barreling into a stop, when she yelled, "NAT!"

Natalie's head jerked back to the crowd.

People were yelling, someone was crying, and in the middle of it all, a man was lying in a pool of blood.

--

Dylan was almost there.

She was breathing hard now. He moved around the corner, and gritting her teeth, she dug into the pavement, and followed.

When she swerved the corner, she nearly barreled into the immobile form that stared impassively at her.

He reached out, caught her, as her arms went around his shoulders to steady herself.

And he was there. He smelled of smoke and musk. Hair gel plastered his hair down against his scalp. His features were drawn into a frown, eyes narrowed in a hawk like glare.

It was him.

Oh, God.

She couldn't move. Every limb was suddenly frozen in concrete. His eyes bore into hers, pinning her, and his finger tips, calloused and firm, moved over her face.

He continued to stare at her, hand now smoothing from her lips to her hair.

Fingers dug in, and breathlessly, she licked her lips, bracing herself for the inevitable pull.

"DYLAN!"

The voice broke the stillness, and he glanced behind her.

Jerked out of her spell, Dylan pulled back, hands pushing at his chest.

His fingers flew, and suddenly the medallion snapped from her neck.

Dylan's breath stuttered in a small gasp of pain.

He ran, quickly and effortlessly.

When Alex rounded the corner, Dylan was shivering.

Her face was pale, her mouth was open. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.

End chapter two